Deus Ex Machina
by joker5974
Summary: My first Fan Fiction. This is a crossover between Blade Runner and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles but has more TSCC elements. I just re-listed it from "crossover" for simplicity's sake. **CHAPTER 17 IS NOW FINALLY UP!** (Thank you all for your tremendous patience!)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Babylon

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

The nightmare quickly ended for him as sleep faded to emerging consciousness. The pounding of massive fists on the flimsy door, all that separated him in darkness from the relentless monstrosity on the other side, gave way to an incessant klaxon that rang in perfect timing with the blows. The noise sounded familiar as a feeling of weightlessness lifted him from darkness, like a free diver ascending to the surface of the water. He surfaced and the sound rippled across the ocean of wakefulness as a repeating scream and he realized that he was the one screaming.

He awoke, thrashing violently, and recognized that the sound was the beeping of his digital alarm clock sitting next to his bed. He swore and groggily reached over to turn it off. The beeping stopped and he was momentarily graced with merciful silence. He yawned loudly and stretched his body on the double bed he lay on, errant feet pushing his jeans from the foot of the bed onto the floor, where they lay in a crumpled heap. The sheets, thrown haphazardly around from constant and abrupt motion, were moderately stained with his sweat. His pillow lay on the floor next to the bed, discarded sometime during the night. Every muscle, every joint in his lean, corded body ached.

He sighed and glanced at the glowing red numbers on the clock: 8:32 AM. He didn't have to be at work until noon, but he always gave himself a few hours to get ready in the morning before switching to full-on _Road Warrior_ mode to fight the mid-day traffic that moved through LA's arteries like congealing grease.

He frowned and pressed his temples. He wasn't particularly looking forward to today. Not with his skull throbbing in agony like hammer strikes and the contents of his intestines threatening to detonate any second from the hangover he was sure he'd been blessed with. Not to what he was sure was probably going to happen upon reporting for work.

The double bed creaked slightly as he clambered off it and made his way to the bathroom, his popping joints irritating him. Despite his youth, he felt old, much older than his twenty-one years he'd celebrated on his birthday months ago by leading the police on a wild, drunken 95 mph chase down the 101 freeway, a half-bottle of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 clutched between his legs, Judas Priest blasting on the truck's speakers, with an equally-drunk eighteen-year-old USC freshman co-ed named Tracy (Stacy?) leaning out the passenger window, bra and shirt pulled up, flashing the stupefied police giving close pursuit behind them. But all things have an ending. The truck couldn't outrun the cops, he was too rubbered to even try to run on foot once the truck came to a skidding stop into the guardrail, and LA's finest were more than motivated to snap him up.

Stacy (Tracy?) was led away screaming his name and kicking furiously until one of the female officers lit her with a Taser and shoved her into a squad car. He needed no such sedation, having rolled out of the truck like a broken doll, laughing and sobbing simultaneously before the handcuffs engulfed his wrists with snapping finality. Then he blissfully passed out. The days after his birthday were spent as a resident of the LA County justice system, first behind bars, then as a sullen defendant before a stern judge who looked like he'd swallowed a brick upon reviewing the police report. Tracy (Stacy?) just happened to be the guy's _niece_.

He smiled grimly at the memory as he turned the faucet knob and waited for the tap water to heat up. The look on the judge's face was priceless, but the mood quickly soured as the laundry list of charges was read out: DUI (his blood-alcohol level was 0.19), damage to city property (a fire hydrant), speeding, fleeing police, and endangerment of a passenger. His attorney approached the bench with the assistant district attorney and disappeared into the judge's chambers after a few hushed words. Fifteen minutes had passed before all three parties reappeared, the judge and AD seemingly ashen, and the hearing resumed. A deal had been quickly negotiated, despite the severity of the charges, if a guilty plea was entered: the defendant would attend drug-alcohol counseling and have his driving license suspended for six months as a first-time offender, plus three months of court probation. Hhe wouldn't be seeing a probation officer, but he needed to stay clean and sober once his license was reinstated.

He'd gritted his teeth as the _other_ penalty was levied: installation of an ignition interlock device in his truck, into which he'd have a blow a puff of breath into and if it detected a trace of alcohol would result in the truck's engine refusing to start. And it would require random exhalations while driving. All other charges were dropped. Seeing no other recourse, he pleaded guilty.

The condemnations from the court and his employer regarding his juvenile behavior were bad enough. Having to take a bus to work or anywhere in LA was humiliating, to say the least. When that option wasn't readily available, hitchhiking the thirteen miles across the nightmare sprawl of the city from home to work and back again quickly developed into an art form that would have made Kerouac proud. By and large, he'd gotten by with a minimum of grief.

The water finally got hot and he splashed copious amounts on his face and kneaded it through his short-cropped brown hair. He turned the water off after a few minutes of leaning across the sink, debating whether or not to puke his tortured guts out, and slowly forced himself to look in the mirror.

He'd been boyishly handsome once, was still highly presentable in most circumstances, but a painful ruggedness hardened his once-delicate features. A pallid, weather-blasted face with shadowy eyes and sunken cheeks stared back at him, lips quivering, nostrils flaring. A day's worth of stubble covered his neck and cheeks, glistening like dew on a field. He glanced at his reflected torso, frowning at the numerous scars peppering his muscled physique, a body which was beginning its run on the long and twisting slide into alcoholism. He grunted, tore his eyes away from his ghastly, besotted visage and shook his head violently. On autopilot he reached into the shower stall to turn the water on, not caring that it was cold when he stepped in. He needed to wake up for what he was certain would be an unforgiving day.

Twenty minutes later he was shaven, his teeth brushed, and dressed in casual business attire: black khaki slacks, light blue button shirt, almost-matching necktie, and his most nondescript pair of Sketchers shoes. His head was still pounding furiously but his stomach had mercifully quieted. He gave a final grudging check of his appearance in the dresser mirror and shambled out of the bedroom. The apartment was dark despite the brilliant sunshine outside, by virtue of his closing of all the window blinds. His foot kicked something on the floor as he exited, and he looked down, puzzled. An empty beer bottle rolled to a stop against the wall in the short hallway, clinking against the baseboard.

He looked ahead and saw another one lying a few feet away, bringing a bubble of dark hilarity to his throat. _What in Christ's name...?_ Thoughts of a drunken Hansel and Gretel following a trail of breadcrumbs through the forest to a gingerbread Heineken brewery momentarily knocked around in his mind.

He stooped to pick up the first bottle, then the second, and followed a third into the living room where he was greeted by the sight of about a dozen empty Budweiser bottles sitting upright on his coffee table, a platoon of soldiers at full attention, led in the front by a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. He sat down on the fraying leather sofa behind the table and stared at the bottles. For a moment he seemed mystified by them darkly glistening in the dim light. They did indeed look like spent soldiers awaiting orders, led by General Beam, himself half-spent after a long night in the trenches and smoke. He shook his head. He suddenly couldn't remember if he tried drinking the whole case in one sitting or over a period of time. If he had to lay bets, he was sure it would be the first theory.

The glass soldiers looked reproachful.

He picked the bourbon bottle up curiously, studying the dark amber of the liquid sloshing inside, very tempted to finish it. He saw his reflected face in the bottle and after another moment he imagined the image speaking to him, in a voice that sounded amazingly like his own.

_Boy, you sure look like a chewed-up piece of dogshit, _he thought he heard General Beam say disgustedly. _I've commanded worthless men before, but you make them all look like John Wayne at Iwo Jima. Look at yourself, you're a piece of shit drunk with the saddest face I've ever seen and a gut that's looking like it wants to hang over your belt like a limp dick. I won't even waste my time pretending I'm a sergeant drilling you like you're a private off the bus at Coronado. You wanna surrender to the enemy and drink the rest, flush what's left of your life down the toilet, you got my permission. I'll even salute you. Hell, I might even issue you a Purple Heart for cowardice. Drink. DRINK..._

He sighed heavily and put the bottle down on the table, settling back into the sofa with a groan. He'd had hangovers before, but this one seemed to assault him with a fury that was equal parts ice and molten lava. He slowly gazed around the living room. His apartment was a mess. Various papers lay scattered in odd places, carelessly dropped potato chip fragments littered the carpet, discarded clothing sat in small piles on the floor, a necktie draped lazily over the back of a lazy-boy recliner. A ridiculous number of USB thumb drives lurked in forgotten places. His opened laptop sat on the breakfast counter by the kitchen, its battery long since drained. A foul odor crept its way from the kitchen to his nostrils. He didn't really want to find out what it was. He knew there was about a week's worth of dishes in the sink waiting to be cleaned, and he hadn't taken the garbage out in a few days. That was probably where the smell was coming from, but he hedged his bets on whatever possibly lurked in the refrigerator...

His landlord had checked the place a few days ago and warned him about the unsanitary conditions, lecturing him about the terms of the lease, promising to impose fines if the apartment wasn't cleaned up by the weekend. He'd humorously described his abode as a proper broken-in bachelor pad, but the property management wasn't amused. The threat lay in place. He'd shrugged it off like he did nearly everything else that presented adverse distraction. It was all a game to him anyway.

He settled further into the worn comfort of the fraying leather and let self-pity take control for a few more minutes. In those moments his brain would take on the form of matter fragmenting and spiraling around a singularity, thoughts and emotions swirling into an endless accretion disk once past the event horizon. He stared blankly at the reproachful empty beer bottles occupying his coffee table and had finally begun constructing thoughts regarding how his life had brought him to this point when his iPhone suddenly rang.

His body lurched at the sound, and he cursed himself for not switching it to silent mode. He was more startled by the fact that the thing even had a battery charge at all, as he'd usually forget to recharge it. He took the ringing smartphone out of his pocket and winced at the name on the caller ID. His boss's secretary. Not good. He was tempted to simply let the call go to voicemail but decided against it.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Good morning Mr. Connor, it's Mrs. Anderson," greeted the caller. Mrs. Anderson was a small, trim woman who always wore her hair in a tight bun and drank orange mint tea with honey. Her desk always smelled like a citrus grove. She could also multitask faster than anyone else he knew, even making her computer seem slow. Her voice always sounded robotic, and it made him shudder involuntarily. "Mr. Ellison asked me to let you know he wants to see you in his office immediately once you come in today."

Ellison. He sighed and gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Mrs. Anderson, I'll do that when I get in," he said as he tapped the call end button on the screen. Being summoned to Ellison's office meant that the sleeping monster called HR had been awakened. He sat silently in the sofa for another moment before finding the will to shake the swirling self-pity, some of it anyway, got up, and slowly made his way to the apartment door, picking up his backpack along the way. He had enough time to grab a bite somewhere, maybe a burrito at the Mexican joint he frequented. He touched the door handle and looked back for a few seconds, surveying the wreck of the bachelor pad that reflected his life.

John Connor, chronic alcoholic, tore his eyes away from the darkened interior of his home and stepped out into the light of day.

2

John climbed into his truck and tried to start the engine. It refused to turn over. He swore and grabbed the handheld alcohol sensor wired into the Drager interlock device, which was installed under the driver-side dashboard. His euphoria of having his driver's license reinstated after six months clouded his memory of having to have the device installed per court order.

He turned it on and blew a long exhalation into it. The device's LCD immediately flashed red letters: TEST FAILED. John swore again, loudly. First day of being able to legally drive again, and he blew it. He sighed, pulled his iPhone 5 from his pocket and reached into his backpack sitting in the passenger seat. He extracted a small USB adapter connected to a 3.5mm plug and plugged the adapter into the Drager unit's input socket. He grabbed an Apple docking cable from the backpack and plugged the iPhone into the Drager. He'd jailbroken his iPhone almost immediately when he purchased it, enabling it to bypass all the restrictions Apple had placed on the software to install non-approved applications.

John scrolled a few pages over on the iPhone's display and tapped on a square-shaped app called "Piggy." The iPhone displayed over a hundred lines of code and after a few seconds flashed a green button: ENABLE? John held his breath and tapped the button, waited a few seconds, and was rewarded with the display reading: READY.

John turned the key and the truck's engine started at once. He blew a whistle of relief and backed out of his parking space. He'd written the iPhone app in modified XCode with a fake signing identity over several weeks prior to getting his license back but hadn't really tested it until today. "Piggy" allowed a user to bypass the software on an ignition interlock, allowing the engine to start without the breath sensor having to be used. It also allowed John to overwrite the failed test log entry in its memory and replace it with a passing entry. Tampering with the Drager interlock constituted a violation of his court probation and would quickly get him back to becoming a pedestrian, but John had spent many long nights (when he wasn't drinking heavily) perfecting the code to backward-wipe all traces of its activity in the interlock's memory.

He hoped.

After spending about half an hour somewhat enjoying his early lunch at Mexicali's, John arrived at the parking garage of ZeiraCorp International at exactly 11:45 am feeling slightly better with his stomach finally having something to do. The drive to penetrate LA's Financial District hadn't been especially difficult, considering the heavy gridlock downtown, but he was getting antsy when the clock advanced past eleven and he hadn't made it much further than Broadway. He'd resorted to carefully alternating between speeding, weaving in traffic, and rudely cutting off other commuters. All the while he made sure not to arouse the attention of the elaborate traffic enforcement camera network he'd meticulously mapped out during his travels throughout the city. But he finally got to work. The security guard at the gate, an amiable old-timer named Jack, gaped when he saw John pull up.

"Uh, good morning, Mr. Connor," he said, almost awestruck. "Driving again are we?"

John smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, you might want to be more careful out there now that Connor got his wheels back."

Jack chuckled as he scanned John's badge. "Oh, I'll be watching for you. Have a good one."

John hated small talk. And bullshit. But he liked Jack nonetheless. He parked his truck in the first available spot on the third level and quickly went inside ZeiraCorp's headquarters. He hated being late, especially after his fourth and final written warning for tardiness. He scanned his badge at the garage's security door and made his way in, grunted a "Hello" to the guard behind the desk and disappeared into the bowels of the building.

ZeiraCorp was a seemingly endless maze of cubicles and offices, reminding John of the electronic innards of a computer system. The floor he worked on was fully staffed today but there wasn't the usual hustle-and-bustle that occurred on any given day. It was certainly subdued, and the near-silence on the floor was eerie. He made it to his small office with a window overlooking 2nd Street and plopped his backpack on his chair. Without sitting he logged into his workstation and quickly scanned his email, looking for anything new or worthwhile to check out. Satisfied that there was nothing of real importance to read in detail, John strode to the elevators. He wasn't particularly worried about his upcoming meeting with Ellison, but his heart rate was slightly elevated.

CEO James Ellison's office was on the twenty-third floor of the ZeiraCorp building. Mrs. Anderson silently waved John through when he entered the office. He took in the smell of oranges and mint as he passed by her desk toward the CEO's door. She never once looked up at John, her attention completely focused on the emails she was typing on her PC. Her machine-like nature ruffled John.

Ellison's office door was closed. John knocked twice and opened the door to find Ellison speaking on the phone via his Bluetooth, pacing slowly back and forth behind his desk, hands on his hips. He was a tall, powerfully-built black man with a completely-shaven head, neat mustache and dressed in an expensive charcoal-gray Armani suit. Every movement displayed a confidence that made John approach the desk cautiously.

Ellison gestured toward the plush chair that faced his desk and John took it, folding his hands across his chest. He waited patiently until Ellison finished his phone conversation and sat down behind the desk. John glanced at several objects adorning it: a pair of ceramic praying hands, several framed portraits, an in/out box that was empty of paper. Ellison fiddled with his Android smartphone for a few seconds, texting someone, before turning his attention to John.

For a moment Ellison didn't speak, holding John with his solemn gaze. John stared back for a few seconds before looking away, out the large windows overlooking the Financial District. He marveled at the neat repair job done to the office following the attack by the aerial drone the first time he'd visited with his mother. It appeared as if nothing had happened.

"You look awful, John," Ellison finally said in greeting. "How much did you drink last night?"

John shrugged. "Enough."

Ellison sighed. He was a very patient man but there were limits to his ability to tolerate recalcitrance. And self-pity. "Do you have any idea what kind of damage you're doing to yourself? You were busted for DUI once and I stuck my neck and the company's neck out for you, got Cohen and his team to convince the court to slap you on the wrist...yeah, you lost your license, but we kept you out of jail. And when you get Cohen and his legal team involved, it's serious business. He's not a nice man...in fact he can be the nastiest guy on the planet when he's riled up." He looked deep into John's eyes.

"But he's our nasty guy, and I can only imagine what he said to the judge and prosecutor after they let you out of the tank." Ellison looked down at his hands as he clasped them together on the desk. "John," he said slowly, "I made a promise to your mother to try to keep you out of trouble, to give you a job here and keep you gainfully employed and more or less happy to be alive after you came back from...wherever it was you went. I still have no idea what it was you went through when you and Catherine disappeared, and I didn't even recognize you when you suddenly reappeared a few days later. You looked like you aged twenty years when you came back. I can't imagine what happened to you and you never told me what happened to Catherine and I have never pushed you to reveal anything to me. Do you want to talk about it? I have all day to talk if you want to."

John said nothing. He stood up from the chair and walked slowly to the windows behind Ellison, looked out at the city and stood there gazing at nothing in particular for a long moment.

"Mr. Ellison," said John, his voice a dead monotone, "You do what you have to do. I did what I had to do and if I had to, I'd probably do it all over again. I accept full responsibility for my actions that day when Weaver and I went on that Magical Mystery Tour and saw how my inaction, while unwitting, caused the future to get so much worse than it should have been. I have also accepted the possibility that nothing I do matters, that I'm doomed to repeat my actions and I cannot escape my fate. I was told my somebody I cared about once that being John Connor is a lonely existence, and at the time I didn't believe it. Now I do because almost everything I had, everyone I ever cared about was taken from me or I was forced to give it all away to serve a purpose that I no longer feel even applies anymore." He turned from the window and looked at Ellison, his green eyes hardened. If they were indeed windows to the soul, they looked into an empty room.

"Everything has faded away and I have become a ghost," John said in a half-whisper. "And the worst part is that I'm not even dead yet."

Ellison closed his eyes and silently began to pray in his head. He couldn't understand what God was allowing to bring this young man's life into terrible tragedy. He was witnessing a slow train wreck taking place before his eyes, watching John Connor, a person he once respected on a level approaching deep reverence, descend into darkness. Understanding washed over him in waves, but he felt helpless to stop the madness that was devouring the young man.

"John," he said, "You're leaving me with no choice with what needs to be done. Your drinking is out of control. It is affecting your work. It's creating a distraction for your coworkers. I cannot allow that to happen in this professional setting. I was hoping to simply talk with you. Like I said, I can devote this entire day with you to try to figure something out. I'm giving you that chance. But now I'm not convinced that you want to even meet me halfway." He nodded to himself, completely certain he knew where this conversation was headed. "I know that alcohol is a coping mechanism for you. I know you are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder from what happened to you when you and Catherine went...forward. I think I know where a huge part of your pain is concentrated. Believe me, loss of a loved one is crushing to one's soul. But John, we need to find some way to move on...otherwise we're destroyed. I don't want to see that happen to you. I do, however need to do something about this matter that has come up between me and you."

John raised his hands in resignation. "Am I fired, then? I think I have a right to know that."

"Is that what you want?"

John shrugged.

"Do you even _know_ what it is you want?" Ellison almost pleaded, incredulous.

John averted his eyes for a few seconds, then looked intensely at Ellison. "I want to see the sub-basement," he said.

Ellison blinked. "Why? There's nothing down there. You've seen it about a dozen times since you started working here."

"I just want to see it," John repeated, raising his voice. _"Please."_

3

Ellison brought John in the elevator down to the sub-basement, which officially did not exist on any of the building's blueprints. The subterranean level was a later addition to the construction of the company's headquarters under the previous CEO, Catherine Weaver. Weaver never gave an explanation for the excavation of the sub-basement, and it was never discussed in any internal memorandum. It certainly did not come up as a topic at her occasional board meetings with the executive staff, but it was a closed secret whispered by gossipers and lurid rumors quickly spread between the cubicles. Some claimed it was a secret weapons laboratory. Others whispered that it housed an advanced supercomputer. A few rumors described it as a cryogenic storage facility for captured aliens.

Only one of the rumors happened to be somewhat true, but it all lay completely outside the imaginations of the curious. Nobody, save Weaver and a (very) select few, was permitted down there. The only way to descend to the sub-basement was obtained by a unique key that operated the elevator's manual override. The key had always been in Weaver's possession, and that same key now jingled on Ellison's keyring upon his assumption of leadership, and it was always attached to his belt. When inserted in the keyhole and turned counter-clockwise it would give access to the sub-basement. The regular maintenance key would only give access to the basement level.

Ellison glanced at John on the way down. He really liked the kid, even at times nearly thinking of him as a surrogate son. He'd taken him in, of sorts, after his mother had disappeared (again, he reminded himself) three years ago. Ellison knew that was when John's troubles began to intensify, when the few drinks after work graduated to the few drinks before work and then quickly went to drinking during work and finally drinking instead of work. John had been caught with a tiny bottle of Wild Turkey at his cubicle one day and the incident led to a tumultuous meeting between him, the Human Resources director and Ellison. HR demanded immediate termination. Ellison negotiated it to two weeks suspension with no pay. He suppressed a sigh at the memory. He was tired of giving John so many second chances when he clearly didn't deserve them. Not many fellow colleagues during Ellison's former career in the FBI got even one.

He rolled another memory around in his mind, from five years ago, when he and Weaver had had a particularly heated exchange after Ellison was hired as her head of security. It involved arranging a meeting between Weaver and the Connors, with which Ellison had his reservations. He voiced his opinion to her a little too strenuously, and she gave him that dagger-eyed, emotionless look she often showed when her daughter wasn't around. _You can contact them or I will do it myself, James,_ she'd coldly told him in her quiet Scottish accent, _and you will not have the luxury of even packing your belongings here..._

"How's Savannah doing?" John suddenly broke into his thoughts.

"She's doing well," said Ellison. Ellison had recently won his day in court against Weaver's surviving kin to become her daughter Savannah's legal guardian. He smiled with pride at his ability to finally gain his foster daughter's trust and affection after two long years of consoling her over the loss of her mother. "She's doing great with her ballet lessons, even though she kinda started late. But she's picking it up real well. I really enjoy being around her. I never saw myself becoming a father, but she kinda forced me into it, and I'm better for it. She's certainly growing like a weed, you should see her now. Doing good in school too, making great grades, but she sure does love her dancing." He paused, then said, "Come to think of it, she almost reminds me a little of Ca-"

"Stop," John abruptly spat. He knew where Ellison was going with his train of thought and for his peace of mind he needed to kill it before they reached the bottom, which in a few more seconds the elevator finally did. The doors opened and they stepped out into nearly pure blackness until the motion sensors in the sub-level detected them and switched the lights on.

The laboratory in the sub-basement was left pretty much exactly the way John remembered it, since nobody else was allowed down there. Nearly the size of a school auditorium, the underground lab was a maze of humming, beeping mainframes, workstations and servers that stood like sentries guarding a terrible secret. John walked slowly into the electronic labyrinth without saying a word to Ellison, who kept pace behind him, suppressing a sigh. He knew where John was making a slow beeline to, wanting to dissuade him, but knowing that John had to do what was needed. It wasn't particularly cold down there, but Ellison felt a chill nonetheless. The place was always spooky.

If there was a ghost silently dwelling down there, John desperately wanted to exorcise it. But he didn't know how.

He came to the spot in the lab where it all happened, when his life began to crumble. The area where Weaver had constructed her Time Displacement Device had gathered dust, but it otherwise looked exactly the same as he'd left it when he returned from nearly twenty years in the future, his body and mind nearly broken, bearing scars that would never heal. He stood for a moment remembering, his memories floating freely like the dust surrounding him.

Weaver's brainchild project, an advanced artificial intelligence she'd dubbed "John Henry," inhabiting a cyborg body sent from the future originally named "Cromartie," had used the TDD to travel from the year 2009 to 2027, apparently to confront and learn how to defeat a malevolent AI called Skynet, which in the future had all but exterminated the human race. It was Skynet that had, in an effort to destroy John before he could help organize the human resistance to defeat the machine enemy in that hideous future, sent Cromartie and many other cyborg Terminator units back in time to kill him and his allies. By and large Skynet failed. In retaliation John and his mother spent nearly every waking minute in the present working to prevent Skynet's development, in the hope of ultimately preventing the machines' genocidal war against humanity.

But the war, in both the future and present, had taken some unexpected turns. Future John, in response to Skynet's attempts to reshape the past to destroy the human resistance and further its own goals, had captured an enemy TDD and sent back allies, both human and machine, to protect his younger self and assist in stopping the future war. One of them was the female cyborg, Cameron.

John sat down in the chair her lifeless body had occupied after she'd come down to confront John Henry. He could still feel her down there in the sub-basement, somehow fleeting in the shadows of the machinery. Cameron had helped John free his mother from prison following an attempt on Savannah Weaver's life by a Terminator. John saved Savannah but his mother was captured as part of a federal fugitive hunt. Cameron broke her out but suffered major damage to her body in the firefight with the prison guards. Ellison had summoned the three of them to ZeiraCorp at Weaver's insistence, and Cameron had descended to the sub-basement, intent on destroying Weaver's AI project.

John Henry, his body tethered to the computer system, had no standalone central processing unit chip to freely operate on. He asked her his would-be destroyer to join him and Weaver. Cameron, who possessed one of the most advanced CPUs in existence, allowed John Henry to take her chip and he subsequently activated the TDD to travel to the future. Catherine Weaver, herself revealed as a machine from the future, an advanced T-1001 liquid-metal Terminator, activated the TDD to pursue him. John, determined to get Cameron's chip back, remained in the expanding chronosphere as his mother watched in horror, refusing to accompany them.

John found himself lying on the floor of an underground bunker, naked, cold, and surrounded by suspicious resistance soldiers, wondering who he was and where he came from. Cameron's body was missing and Weaver had quickly slipped away into the ruins of what had once been Los Angeles. John was quickly taken prisoner and interrogated. Unable to satisfy their questions, he was beaten and then tortured. Even though he was destined to one day lead humanity to victory against Skynet's machine forces, nobody in the future knew who John Connor was, and he quickly realized why.

For eighteen years, John Connor had ceased to exist, having come across time in a vain attempt to rescue Cameron.

_"He's got her chip. He's got her!" _John had cried to his mother before vanishing in the TDD's chronosphere with Weaver. His words echoed in the dusky tunnels of his memory as he sat with his head down in the chair. Many other terrible memories of the two years he'd spent in that possible future threatened to pull him under but with an iron effort of will he quickly suppressed them. Before that sunny April day in 2009 he'd lived. When Cameron had left him, he died. Her final message to him, repeated endlessly on the computer monitor of the TDD equipment, was, in a way, her epitaph:

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

…

John then knew she was gone. His protector, his only real friend, had forsaken him.

4

"How did you get back from the future?" Ellison suddenly asked. He'd stood there watching John slumped over in John Henry's chair for a number of minutes in silence, respecting the young man's space, giving him time to try to work it all out in a way he would probably never understand.

John didn't face him. In a soft voice, he answered, "It doesn't matter."

Ellison sighed. He didn't want to push it, but his curiosity was insatiable. "You must have caught up with John Henry, because you somehow came back with Cameron's chip. It's metal. Only living material can go through. How did you even bring that back?"

John finally turned to look at him. His cheeks glistened with drying tears. Ellison's heart leaped. _Dear God,_ he thought, _Please tell me he's finally breaking through this_.

"I held it in my mouth as I went through," John said.

"And you uploaded whatever was on it to the web. Was it a virus?"

"It was a worm," John explained, suddenly weary of telling his story. "John Henry was every bit Skynet's equal, practically a twin AI, but he was taught that life itself was sacred and that humanity, for all its faults, was at its core good and could peacefully coexist with the machines. Skynet had no such moral grounding, just pure, cold logic...and logic dictated that humanity was a threat to Skynet's existence. Since we created it, we had a way to uncreate it, and therefore we had to go. John Henry grew to love you and Savannah, understood and respected your teachings, and resolved to stop his "brother" from trying to kill us all. So he went forward to probe Skynet in its most advanced phase, to glean every bit of data to find a weakness, and because it felt that it ruled supreme and nobody could stop it, it let its guard down. And John Henry found a way in."

"He found a weakness," Ellison reiterated.

"Yes. Skynet breathed fire but left its ass unguarded. And since John Henry perfectly passed as a standard T-888 Terminator unit, he jacked into Skynet's back door defenses and read its entire base code, its electronic DNA. He used that info to build a worm executable that could corrupt and eventually erase Skynet's AI matrix, but it wouldn't work on the future incarnation of it. Skynet was too powerful at that time to be affected by it. John Henry needed to come back to the present to feed it to the baby Skynet, before its development peaked." Despite his will to bury the memories, he found himself finally confessing. He could only breathe in short gasps.

"I escaped the resistance camp by that time, with help from a friend and also with Weaver's help, still not knowing what John Henry was up to, but he explained it all to me when we met again, about a year later. It was too damn dangerous to really meet with anybody with all the infiltrators there, and the resistance was hunting me, thinking I was a spy, but we managed it. And I finally understood why Cameron gave him her chip. He needed it to operate untethered and also to write the worm on it. It was the only CPU advanced enough to hold his intelligence. It couldn't hold two. Cameron's personality, her programming, everything that was her, was gone, overwritten. She'd sacrificed herself to help bring Skynet down. We intended to power up the TDD in the ZeiraCorp ruins and travel back together, but we ran into trouble." John suddenly sucked in a breath.

"Skynet?" inquired Ellison.

"Humans. Grays, we called them. Traitors. People who pledged their allegiance to Skynet, hoping that by serving it they would be rewarded and have a part in the new world order. They somehow caught wind of us and followed us, armed to their balls and supported by T-888s. But that wasn't the only problem. We needed a power source to fuel the TDD, and the only facility nearby strong enough to do it was Serrano Point Station. It was completely under Skynet's control, but we had to take it. John Henry and Weaver infiltrated it and shut down the security, which was fairly easy for them. By that time some of the resistance finally believed my story and sent some soldiers to help us.

"We managed to destroy most of the machines defending the place and we diverted enough power to what was left of the ZeiraCorp campus. But we paid for it...badly. Most of the human soldiers were killed by the time we got back to ZeiraCorp. John Henry was badly damaged and couldn't make it through the TDD. A whole bunch of Grays and a few machines dogged us. The surviving resistance fighters helped me and Weaver fight back. I managed to drag John Henry away to extract the chip from his head and Weaver activated the TDD. She almost made it but her liquid metal body was damaged by plasma weapons fire and couldn't re-form properly. That left me, and I made it through. The last thing Catherine told me was she would try to destroy the time machine. I don't know if she did it or what happened to her but she was probably destroyed. Then you and Mom found me here. To you I was gone for a few days...but I'd spent almost two years in the future."

Ellison whistled.

John let out a deep breath and said, "You remember the rest: I interfaced the chip with the system here and uploaded the worm to the web and let it do its work, looking for every trace of Skynet to infect and shut down. We had no idea if it would work, so we waited. April 21, 2011 came and went and nothing happened. No Judgment Day, no nuclear war, no army of Terminators chasing us around and no HKs zapping from the sky. It seemed we finally beat it."

_Please, God, let that be true,_ thought Ellison. John's story left him sitting literally at the edge of the counter he was propped on, and he settled back on it. He was thinking about everything John had told him, especially of Catherine's fate and how he should possibly break that terrible news to Savannah when John said something and he didn't catch it. "Sorry?"

"I asked you what happened to the body."

Ellison's brow furrowed. "What body?"

"Cameron's body. Was it still here when we jumped or did it...?" he left the rest unasked.

Ellison exhaled hard. "I'm sorry, John. I thought I told you before, it vanished with you and Catherine in the time bubble. There was nothing there after you disappeared."

A single tear rolled down John's cheek. _It doesn't go through, _Weaver had impassively told him upon arriving in 2027. That was her answer to him asking where her body was. He'd prayed that he'd find it in the present if he ever got back with her chip. Ellison now confirmed what he had feared. Inorganic material couldn't go through time displacement, and apparently her body, heavily damaged with part of her metal endoskeleton exposed, had been vaporized. Not that it would have mattered. The chip he'd brought back didn't contain her personality matrix or memories anyway. He'd searched all over its memory sectors and found nothing, not even John Henry's programming.

He sighed. A strange sense of a weight being lifted from his shoulders suddenly came. Cameron was truly gone.

Ellison cleared his throat and said, "John we should be getting out of here. We need-" He never got to finish his sentence. A loud sound of an explosion shattered the silence and the building shook.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Leg Work

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

Rick Deckard thought, _There's something downright creepy about this guy._

He sat silently in his car stuck in LA traffic, which was always bad at any given time of the day. The sun beat down mercilessly, the heat index hotter than usual for southern California in late summer. He'd cranked the AC to its next-highest setting but the cold blast of air did little to bring comfort from the heat. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was his temporary partner, Deputy US Marshal Brent Danford.

Deckard had been assigned TDY to the Fed's department as part of a federal Fugitive Investigative Strike Team (FIST) to help with finding high-profile fugitives known to be in the greater Los Angeles area and the Fed was getting under the LAPD detective's skin without doing anything, really. In fact, groused Deckard, the Fed doing nothing at all was what was creeping him out.

He didn't like the guy despite Danford's warm smile and firm handshake when they met in Captain Bryant's office earlier that morning. Deckard's police skills involved observing every little movement, every little facial tic or involuntary body tremor, every minute eye movement, and listening for telltale vocal inflections to detect liars. It was a talent he'd been taught to develop in the police academy and sharpened over the years in the field. Anything out of place, any visual distinctiveness, may yield a clue or betray some vital piece of information he could use to help clear a robbery, murder or kidnapping case.

Danford showed absolutely nothing. Every movement he made seemed perfectly choreographed, his speech devoid of any emotion. Deckard resisted an impulse to hold a finger under the Marshal's nose to find out if the guy was even so much as breathing_._ Danford's appearance was too perfect, to confound Deckard even more. Not a single skin blemish marred the Fed's face, no tan lines were visible, and his brown hair was neatly combed and stayed in place. Danford was dressed in an expensive-looking gray suit with faint black-and-blue pinstripes and was feet were shod in shiny wingtip loafers. His clean-shaven face had no razor burn marks and his eyebrows were neatly trimmed. The man's face was a saturnine mask of icy calm despite the afternoon heat, his cold blue eyes staring straight ahead, angular jaw unmoving. The man wasn't even sweating.

Odd. Most federal marshals Deckard met didn't exactly look or even dress to the nines. They generally avoided looking like high-powered lawyers like Danford did. He looked just too perfect. And it was quietly getting under Deckard's skin. He glanced at his own reflection in the rear view mirror. A tired-looking thirtysomething-year-old looked back at him with piercing eyes beneath eyebrows shaped like eagle talons, his short-cropped brown hair already looking like it needed a wash.

He'd shaved this morning but already his lower face was showing a late-day stubble. He grimaced and looked away, focusing on the road ahead.

His discomfort with Danford stemmed mostly from the man's silence. He hadn't spoken a single word to Deckard since the two of them drove away from the new police administration building on First Street. Deckard had gone so far as to offer the Fed a cup of coffee and Danford had simply shaken his head, saying nothing. _Guess coffee's too good for you, pal,_ Deckard thought sourly. He sipped from his own cup, the coffee long since cooled, but he needed the caffeine. They'd been driving around the city all day chasing down one lead after another. They'd started in an apartment complex in Torrance, questioning some of the tenants there, then drove over to Van Nuys, where Danford had just lurked in the background when Deckard entered a firearms shop and asked the clerk and owner questions about the subject they were searching for and were now driving to an older neighborhood in Compton. After nearly forty minutes in gridlock they finally exited the freeway and swept into the LA suburb.

It looked like any suburban area in a large city as Deckard parked the car in the driveway of the house the gun shop owner had supplied them. The homes were in a state of semi-neglect but there didn't appear to be any of the usual signs of urban decay or gang activity. Windows were unbroken, the streets were largely clear of debris. There were a few cars parked on front lawns, but Deckard had to admit to himself that he'd seen worse. There were several people out going about their business, mowing lawns, taking out the trash, or standing around talking with other and nobody outside glanced more than twice as they drove by. Danford gazed out his window, seemingly transfixed by what was out there. Deckard parked the car on the side of the street and looked at the address the gun shop owner gave him earlier on his Android phone. Danford finally spoke. "This may be a dead end, you know." His speech was completely without accent.

Deckard looked at him. "Maybe, but you never know. Even if it's a fake address, our subject wouldn't have just pulled it out of nowhere. This may have been a prior residence once, or maybe the subject drove through the neighborhood and picked a house number. Either way, somebody here may have seen something. We'll check out the house first, then check with the neighbors." He paused and studied the Fed intensely. "Didn't they teach you this stuff in DC or Quantico or wherever?"

Danford stared back at the detective with those dead eyes. "Actually our training academy is in Georgia. I appreciate your assistance and your knowledge in tracking down leads, but we need to get to the task at hand."

"Of course we do," Deckard mumbled. He couldn't wait to dump this robotic idiot back at Central and get back to collecting shell casings at homicide scenes. _Anything_ at this point was better than what Bryant or whatever moron had stuck him with. But when the federal district command requests cops to assist with a FIST operation, partnered with a deputy marshal, you don't say no. Deckard just wished it was anybody other than this creep.

They walked to the house at the address Deckard had entered into his GPS and he tensed when he saw a late-model Nissan sedan parked in the driveway of the moldering rancher. The grass on the front lawn was overgrown and weed-infested and there didn't seem to be any sign of recent activity there. He instinctively reached for his sidearm, a 17-round Glock 19, and strode cautiously. He wasn't expecting a firefight, but years of gut instinct and watching a former partner exit the world with a bullet hole through his forehead taught Deckard that anything can happen.

He kept his hand on the weapon as he knocked on the door. Danford stood about three yards away, looking calm, as if he expected absolutely nothing to happen. Deckard had his LAPD detective shield ready when the door slowly opened and a tall, pale old man shuffled into the door frame. Deckard immediately relaxed.

"Yes?" the old man greeted.

Deckard showed him his credentials. "Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Detective Deckard with the Los Angeles PD. Is there anybody else besides you in the home?"

The old man seemed mystified by the question. He scratched his graying, balding pate and finally said, "Nobody here except me and my wife. We've been here since the Watts Riots blew over and had all our kids move out in the Seventies. Grandkids were here last week from St. Louis, but nobody since then-"

Danford strode up behind Deckard and showed the old man his Marshals Service shield. "Sir, I'm Deputy US Marshal Danford. We're here to find out if a wanted fugitive may have used this address at one point. Can you verify you and your wife have been here before the previous year?"

The old man's gaze shifted from the Fed's shield to Deckard and then off to the side, then shook his head. "We've been here since Johnson was president, son. If you need to see the deed on the home, you're welcome to it. My name's been on it over fifty years."

Deckard believed him. "What is your name, sir?" he asked.

"Jackson. James and Donna Jackson. What's this about a fugitive? Like on that TV show a while back?"

"Something like that," said Deckard, gritting his teeth. He looked around the front porch area. It was cluttered with garden tools that appeared unused for a long time. "I don't think it's necessary to dig out your papers on the home, Mr. Jackson, but I'd like to know if we may look around." He paused. "Do you recall seeing anybody suspicious-looking wandering around the neighborhood? Like they were scouting the area out? Cars or trucks slowly driving by, like they were casing the place?"

Mr. Jackson searched his memory for a moment and shook his head. "No, sir. Don't remember seeing anything like that. The wife and I don't leave the house much, and we don't take to looking out the windows that much either." A look of resignation crossed his face, but then suddenly his eyes lit up.

"Yes?" Deckard pressed.

"Actually, now that you mention it, about a week ago we had a visit from somebody who said she represented the Los Angeles Historical Society and she wanted to speak with us regarding some of the events that happened in our part of the county, considering we'd been here for a while. She was very nice, but I know I won't forget her face. She was kinda...intense, if you know what I mean." He harrumphed loudly and said, "We told her we weren't really involved in much of anything, not the hippie stuff, not the rioting, hell, not even much in the neighborhood. We've always been quiet folks here. She asked us a few questions about our age, how long we've lived here, if I was a veteran, which I am. I fought in Korea in '53. Then she thanked us and left."

Danford pulled a photograph out of his suit coat pocket. "Mr. Jackson, was it this woman?" he asked, dead monotone still in place.

Deckard glanced at the picture, then at Mr. Jackson. The old man looked quizzically at it, thought for a moment, and said, "It might be. Hair was a different color and she wore glasses, but that might be her. Who is she?"

Deckard said, "Somebody we're looking for, Mr. Jackson. Did you happen to see the vehicle she was driving?"

"I didn't see which one she got into, but I remember staying at the door and I saw a black pickup truck go by almost right after she left."

Danford stepped closer to Mr. Jackson. "Do you think you remember the make and model?"

"I think it was a Dodge Ram. Yeah, I remember seeing the sheep logo on the front as it went by."

"License number?" Deckard almost pleaded.

Mr. Jackson shook his head sadly. "No, it went by too fast. There were a couple of kids outside though, one of them might've seen it."

"Who was outside?" Danford asked, now almost sounding desperate. Deckard was taken aback by the Fed's newfound animation, and the swing from dispassionate robot to enthusiastic sleuth made his smirk involuntarily. He sarcastically thought, _Which Hardy Boy are you now? Frank or Joe?_

Mr. Jackson gave them names of the kids who lived several houses down the street, and Deckard thanked the man for his time. They decided to walk instead of driving, despite the heat. Along the way Danford suddenly opened up.

"She was in Torrance last week," he said. "Probably been there for a week. She drives out here to Compton, checks out the neighborhood, chats up the Jacksons, gets to know them, uses their address for the background check, claims to be living with them, and when the check comes back clean she buys a ton of weaponry, using cash from the bank she robbed last month after it was laundered by the Ukrainians. I don't know what favors she did for them, but it was enough to put her in their good graces. Then the FBI reports a sale of three hundred pounds of Semtex by a dummy corporation set up in San Diego through the Ukrainians acting as middle men and Homeland Security puts her on priority. They tracked the export from the Czech Republic until it reached San Diego. But she's still missing and the weapons and Semtex are missing."

Deckard actually smiled. It was the longest Danford had spoken all day. "She could have been casing this neighborhood long before visiting the Jacksons. Somebody should have seen somebody suspicious," Deckard said. The summer heat, dry as it was, nearly wore him down. "This is it," he announced as they approached the front door of the house Mr. Jackson pointed them to. Deckard rang the doorbell and got his gold shield ready to show. The door opened and a young Hispanic-looking woman greeted them. _"Si?"_ she asked.

_"Policia, se__ñ__ora," _Deckard said, showing his badge. "LAPD, ma'am. Are Carlos or Miguel here with you? They're not in trouble, I assure you. We need to ask them if they saw something."

2

Ten minutes after speaking with the boys and their mother Deckard and Danford raced back to the car where Deckard booted up the dashboard PC and logged into the LAPD's Policenet. The kids had been out playing with their mother's cellphone, which happened to have a video camera that they'd used to record each other's skateboard tricks. Which also happened to get a glimpse of the black Ram's front plate as it roared by.

He had to plead with Mrs. Ramirez to allow him and Danford to view the video. She was afraid of the police, being a former illegal migrant married to a natural-born Chicano. He was reduced to offering to swear on a Bible that they only wanted to see the recording. She brought out a Catholic liturgy and made him swear on it that he wouldn't report her to Immigration. Deckard had no intention of even dreaming about it, but he gladly embraced his lapsed Catholicism for a few minutes to assure her that no, he was a good man.

The image of the plate on the video was grainy but good enough to read the numbers. It was those numbers he was entering into the DMV's database. His heart leaped when a name and address flashed on the computer screen.

He frowned. "Not her," said Deckard, slightly disappointed.

Danford, however, was not disappointed when he read the name. His eyes, always stoic, blazed with what would have appeared to Deckard as psychotic fascination.

_"Connor,"_ the Fed said coldly.

3

LAPD POLICENET

URGENT MESSAGE 14:05 08/12/2013

SENDER: DECKARD, R (DET 26354/R-H DIV/S)

*****9999997777774543111*****

TO: BRYANT, H (CAP 66875/R-H DIV/S)

SUBJECT: LAPD/USMS FIST ASSIGNMENT US99874/21 (BAUM CASE)

ENCRYPTED EMAIL—AWAITING KEY ENTRY

ACCEPTED

REPORT AS FOLLOWS:

CAPTAIN BRYANT, WE ARE FOLLOWING UP A PRIORITY LEAD CONCERNING SUBJECT SARAH BAUM, FOCUS OF LA-BASED FUGITIVE STRIKE TEAM ASSIGNMENT. USM DANFORD AND I TRACED A VEHICLE USED BY BAUM REGISTERED TO CONNOR, JOHN.

CHECKED CONNOR'S RECORD AND HE WAS UNDER COURT PROBATION STEMMING FROM DUI FELONY FEB 23. VEHICLE KEPT IN PARKING GARAGE AT 234 OVERLAND AVE 02/26-08/09 AND FITTED WITH IGNITION INTERLOCK. CONNOR RECENTLY REINSTATED DRIVER LICENSE PRIVLIGES AS OF 08/09 UPON COMPLETION OF COURT PROBATION. VEHICLE IS 2009 DODGE RAM PICKUP (BLACK), CA DMV LICENSE FDT-7213. TRUCK USED BY BAUM ON 08/07 IN COMPTON SUBURB AND BAUM VISITED JAMES JACKSON RESIDENCE TO BUILD COVER FOR BACKGROUND CHECK AT DAVIDSON FIREARMS STORE IN VAN NUYS. VARIOUS AUTO/SEMIAUTO WEAPONS PURCHASED ABOUT $925,000 WORTH. SEMTEX SALE TRACED TO SAN DIEGO DUMMY CORP BUT RENTED OFFICE EMPTY UPON SDPD INVESTIGATION. HEADING TO CONNOR RESIDENCE IN MAR VISTA NOW. RECOMMEND AVAILABLE UNITS TO HEAD TO CONNOR EMPLOYER ZEIRA CORPORATION IF CONNOR NOT HOME. USM DANFORD STATES CONNOR IS BAUM'S SON AND BAUM IS ALIAS. REAL NAME IS SARAH JEAN CONNOR. SEE CYBERDYNE BREAK-IN/ARSON CASE, 1995, MURDER OF MILES BENNETT DYSON, OTHERS. SUBJECT CONSIDERED ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS.

SECURE SEND

DECKARD, R 26354

Captain Harry Bryant read Deckard's email while two thousand feet in the air above downtown Los Angeles. He was riding as a passenger in one of the LAPD's new aerodyne vehicles, a compact vertical takeoff and landing machine that was quickly taking the place of helicopters due to its quieter engines and small frame, making it perfect to swoop into tight spaces a chopper couldn't get into. It was quite literally a "flying car," as it could also be driven on the ground like a conventional automobile when not in flight. The aerodyne cars were affectionately nicknamed "spinners" by the pilots who operated them. Being inherently non-aerodynamic upon takeoff, they slowly spun around in the air as the intake engines forced air to displace beneath the vehicle until attitude-adjustment jets stabilized the car for horizontal motion.

Bryant had few reservations regarding the new spinners. He'd ridden in choppers before, high above the city, but the experience of being in a _police car _flying through the air was quite simply an unusual, albeit thrilling, experience for him. He loved how they just seemed to turn on a dime in mid-air and could land in places choppers couldn't. His pilot, Gaff, turned to him and said, "We can get to ZeiraCorp in about five minutes, sir. Central Division is about one street away." He turned the spinner around 180 degrees and pointed. "Financial District _est juste là._"

Bryant glanced at him, puzzled. "What was that?"

Gaff blinked. "Over there," he said, pointing. "_Ott van_."

"Speak English, please, Gaff," said Bryant. Gaff was starting to converse in more of that gutter talk called Cityspeak lately, mixing together various languages. Cityspeak was becoming more and more prevalent with the regular denizens as immigration became rampant to LA following Congressional approval making it easier for non-natives to enter the US. Bryant guessed that more foreigners were moving into Gaff's neighborhood and the pilot was picking up on the various lingo out of spite. It wasn't hard to follow, but it was annoying. "Cut that gibberish, all right?"

Gaff shrugged. "_Da, Capitaine,_" he replied.

Bryant grimaced. He was not tolerant of other ethnic groups, and the pace of cultural change was too much for him to handle. He barely trusted Gaff. The pilot's swarthy complexion and pale green eyes spoke of a mingling of genes that Bryant thought ill of.

"Take us to ZeiraCorp, Gaff, and we'll land on the roof. I want this Baum bitch, and if her son works there, he might lead us to her."

Gaff nodded and opened the spinner's throttle, speeding toward the cluster of skyscrapers that heralded LA's downtown. Bryant glimpsed two other police spinners converging on their general heading. He had no doubt that in a few years the airspace above the city was going to get crowded. Right now only the LAPD and state and government entities were authorized to fly spinners, but it wouldn't be long before the private sector would be licensed to own and operate them. Things in the world were changing so quickly, technology was becoming scarier, progress was accelerating so rapidly that Bryant wondered if he'd been asleep the past ten years.

He got a phone call over his Bluetooth. Deckard and Danford were at Connor's residence in Mar Vista and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, and Deckard had sweet-talked the property manager there to let them in. Connor wasn't home, and they initially thought somebody had broken in before them and trashed the place, until Deckard noticed all the empty beer bottles in the living room.

Bryant chuckled at that tidbit of info. He got another incoming call, identifying itself as Holden, one of the other detectives in his unit. He put Deckard on hold and took Holden's call.

"Yeah, Holden?" Bryant greeted.

"Captain, real quick, I'm down here at the Federal Building," Holden panted. "FBI got a tip from somebody about ten minutes ago saying they thought they saw a woman resembling Baum loitering outside the ZeiraCorp building before disappearing into the crowd. We're scrambling like a bat outta hell now to get down there."

Bryant bit his lip. He really didn't want the feds to get in their way. "How many men?"

"Got about ten Bureau guys and five marshals and we're piling into cars now. We can spread out all over Bunker Hill and the surrounding sectors real quick, plus we can monitor all the street cameras and get alerts on the fly."

Bryant groaned. He wanted to be the one to catch Baum, Connor, whatever the hell it was the female eco-terrorist was calling herself now. "Shit," he muttered to himself. "Holden, we're about to brace her son, John Connor. He's an employee of ZeiraCorp and he's been there all day. I want you and the feds to-"

Bryant never got finish his sentence. Gaff had brought the spinner to within nine hundred feet of the ZeiraCorp building when a bright flash of light burst from the parking garage on the side of the building and a deafening **BOOM **quickly followed. The spinner was rocked by the shock wave that flattened over half the building and nearly every small structure that stood within roughly a half-mile radius. Windows for almost four surrounding blocks were shattered. The curved glass of the spinner's canopy was struck by a piece of flying debris and the glass cracked, partially obscuring their view. Gaff loudly swore in three different tongues as the spinner bucked and began twirling to the ground.

Bryant screamed at Gaff to get them airborne again but Gaff was seemingly unable to control the spinner. Bryant caught a glimpse of what remained of the ZeiraCorp building as the vehicle spun around and gaped at the sight of the small mushroom cloud that rose in the sky. Gaff shouted a mayday message to Central as the spinner plowed into the side of a building, sending brick and glass showering on pedestrians below, dropped rapidly and hit a car parked below, crushing it and finally coming to rest on the street in a crumpled heap of metal and fiberglass. Gaff cried out as his right femur shattered from the impact and blacked out. Bryant was spared the worst from the impact but smacked his head into the canopy glass and the concussion put him out as well.

The explosion at the ZeiraCorp building rained fiery debris for up to two miles from the blast zone, and small fires raged all over the Financial District. Panic and rioting swiftly spread throughout the city. At the end of the day, the death toll would report 146 people dead, 2,000 injured, and 43 missing.

4

Deckard and Danford were finishing up looking around Connor's apartment for anything useful without disturbing the property when Deckard's cellphone rang. It was Holden.

"What?" Deckard shouted. "Oh, Christ. We'll be right up there."

Danford asked, "What's going on?"

Deckard ended the call and said, "There was an explosion at the ZeiraCorp building. Whole city block got demolished. Bryant was in a spinner nearby and he and the pilot are missing."

"It's her," Danford said as he pulled back the top slide on his gun.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Running Up That Hill

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

The sound of the explosion rippled throughout the ZeiraCorp building and shook the ceiling of the sub-basement. To the two men standing in the TDD lab, it was like a San Andreas temblor, until the thunderclap of the explosion reached their ears. "What the hell is that?" yelled John.

Ellison instinctively dropped to a crouching position and looked for something to hide under. "Not an earthquake. It almost sounded like a bomb. Get underneath something!" he shouted.

John stayed where he stood and shook his head. "If the building's coming down, there's nowhere to go anyway. I'm waiting for the aftershocks to get done. And if the building does collapse, we might not make it out at all." He pulled his iPhone out and winced at the message at the top: NO SERVICE. "Weaver didn't think to put a repeater down here to boost cellular signal?"

Ellison rolled his eyes. "I doubt that was high on her list of priorities. There's strong wi-fi down here though, but it's password-protected."

A second after he spoke, the lights in the sub-basement flickered once and went out. Blue-tinted emergency lights snapped on, bathing everything in an otherworldly cyan glow. The fire alarm began blaring, making them grimace. Most of the server clusters and computer blocks were still running, drawing off independent backup generators underground.

"Lights out," muttered John. "Let's get out of here."

Ellison remained in a squat. "How?" he asked, looking half-crazed at John.

"What do you mean 'how?' Elevator probably doesn't work now. Let's take the stairs."

"What stairs? The elevator was the only way down here, John."

John felt like laughing. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. No emergency exits, no stairways. The elevator was the only means of accessing this floor. If it's out of commission, you wait down here until they get it back up and running." Ellison sat down wearily and chuckled. "If that was indeed a bomb, and the building's being evacuated, nobody will think to look for us down here. Hardly anyone knows this level even exists."

"Then how in God's name was Weaver supposed to get out if she was trapped down here?"

"I don't know!" Ellison exploded. He'd blown his cool but he didn't care. He waved his arm wildly in the air. "She was liquid metal! She'd probably just slither up the freaking sewer pipes or something to get out!"

John finally let out a laugh, a grim cackle that echoed through the sub-basement. He'd survived Terminators, Grays, bomb blasts, torture and gunshots and he thought: Fuck me. The great John Connor, savior of humankind, is finding himself dying of asphyxiation and sheer boredom being buried more than one hundred feet beneath the rubble of a building that's headquarters for a job I'm trying to get fired from. This is hilarious...

He let the laughter die out in his lungs and said, "Well, you're welcome to find early retirement down here, James. I'm going to look for a way out." He left Ellison and walked over to the elevator doors, guided by the orange glow of the EXIT sign mounted above them. Ellison sighed, got up off the floor and followed John.

John rapped on the elevator doors. There had to be a way out somehow, he was sure of it. "Help me push these open." He gripped the end of one side while Ellison grabbed the other, and with a grunt they managed to force the doors open about a foot. John used his iPhone to illuminate the interior. The elevator was gone, which pulled a sigh of relief from Ellison. He pointed in the near-darkness. "There's a service ladder in the shaft for the maintenance crews," the CEO explained. "We might be able to get out using it."

"Groovy," John grunted. They forced the doors further apart and carefully stepped out into the darkened elevator shaft. Debris and dust rained down steadily from the darkness above. Ominous creaking sounds echoed down the shaft. John swung the iPhone's light around until he found the rungs of the ladder leading up. He turned it up into the blackness overhead and didn't see the bottom of the elevator car. John turned the phone off and put it in his pocket. "Let's go," he said, testing the first few rungs. They held his weight. He gritted his teeth and continued up, followed by Ellison.

They climbed for nearly half an hour in silence. Debris the size of golf balls made the going difficult, and John bent his head down to avoid getting smacked in the face by it. Ellison was somewhat more fortunate, climbing after John, but he found himself slowing down. "Wait," he called.

"What's wrong?" asked John.

"Can't—gotta catch my breath."

John sighed. "Okay, let's take a minute."

After a few minutes of hearing Ellison wheezing, then drawing in ragged breaths, John asked, "You feeling better?"

"Yeah," replied Ellison. "Just...getting old, you know?"

"I know the feeling," said John, grinning humorlessly. A thought suddenly formed a long-suppressed question to his lips. "How did you manage to become CEO after Weaver and I jumped?"

Ellison steadied himself against the ladder, taken by surprise by John's random query. "To be honest with you, John," he said seriously, "I think it was because I was one of the few people Catherine didn't kill."

John let out a laugh. "Seriously? I thought maybe she engineered it before she left."

Ellison coughed and said, "She may have. Because all I really know is that right after she departed the board of directors hauled me into the meeting and announced their decision to elevate me. Maybe she put it in writing, or maybe they saw how closely I worked with her and lived to go home every day. But it was unanimous. I woke up the next day with a driver and a new BMW waiting for me out on my driveway. Savannah was in the back seat grinning like she'd won the lottery with a stash of papers in a briefcase waiting for me to go through. It was nuts. But I settled into the job pretty quickly." He paused for a moment, then said, "It stresses me out, sure, but I love the perks. I love the presentations I do at the CES every year, meeting with the various other heads of business, having lunch with Bill and Melinda, meeting the Obamas in 2011, seeing all the new things we're developing, having a part in it all..." He smiled as his voice trailed off.

Ellison closed his eyes and said, "Nothing, though, beats watching my new daughter's face when I pick her up from school. Being CEO of a mega-company pales in the face of fatherhood, John. I hope you get to experience it someday. It's something I'll always regret not being able to have had with my ex."

John silently nodded. The loneliness of his life threatened to envelop him again, and he needed to get moving. "Let's go," he said. They resumed their climbing and then after a few moments John's nostrils were assaulted by the acrid odor. "Smoke," he announced.

"We must be getting close to ground level," said Ellison. "Building must be on fire."

"Let's hope we don't walk right into it." John pulled his iPhone out and waved its light around. He saw a pair of doors about ten feet up. He could hear the sounds of people screaming, feet pounding, emergency alarms shrieking. "These must be the ground floor doors," he said. The smoke began to fill his lungs in earnest, and he coughed. "I'll touch them to see if they're hot, and if not we'll pry them open."

"Okay," said Ellison, whose lungs were hacking away regularly. Between coughs he said, "John, when we get out of here, we have to find another way to the top floor."

John wanted to believe he hallucinated what he heard. "Why?"

"Because we-" The sound they heard directly above them killed the rest of Ellison's sentence. It was a heavy, grinding sound that sent chills down John's spine as it crept down the shaft. "What the hell is that?" John yelled. He reached the doors and tried pushing them open. They wouldn't budge. He carefully shimmied to the opposite side, holding onto a nearby electrical cable. Ellison finally reached them and carefully set one foot on the door ledge, pulling his side. The grinding metallic sound descended closer.

"That sounds like the elevator sliding down," Ellison said. Sudden fear lit his face. "Somebody must've taken it up a while back. Either a cable snapped or the governor's compromised."

"Shit," muttered John. He pulled harder, and the doors cracked open an inch. Light slid through into the dark. The sounds of running, panicked people filtered through the doors. The grinding sound of the elevator grew louder. It was maybe two floors above them, steadily creeping down the shaft. The two men grunted like angry bulls as they used all their strength to force the doors open. Ellison screamed, "Go!" and tried shoving John through them. Smoke poured through the opening doors and John was able to squeeze his head and torso through. He saw people running toward the exits past the security desk amid the haze.

"Hey!" John screamed. "Help!" He tried shoving his body through the doors and felt a hand pull him through. He looked up into the panicked face of Jack, the older guard from the garage gate. Jack's face was bloody and he appeared to be limping.

"Got you, Mr. Connor," he wheezed. John collapsed to the ground and quickly scrambled back to the doors. "James!" he screamed. He saw Ellison's hands flutter between the doors, heard him scream, "John, it's right on top of me!"

John took hold of one of the doors. "Jack, help me get this open!" He pulled with all his might as Jack grunted against the other door. Ellison managed to force most of his body out, tearing his suit. John grabbed his arm and Ellison was almost completely out when his body suddenly seized and he threw his head back in a tortured scream. Ellison's left leg was caught in the shaft, and John gaped in horror as he saw the falling elevator slide down past the floor, dragging Ellison with it. John and Jack pulled instinctively, trying to free Ellison from the grinding deathtrap of the elevator shaft, when their weight slackened and Ellison flew free from the doors. A crimson trail of blood flowed from his left pant leg, where his foot used to be.

"Oh God, Oh Christ," said John. Jack let go of Ellison's hand and stepped back in horror. Ellison howled like a wounded dog, reaching down to clutch the stump where his foot was torn away. John lunged forward to stop him. "No, James, don't touch it!" He tore off his dress shirt and tie and ripped the shirt in half to tie a tourniquet around Ellison's leg above the spurting stump, being careful not to tie it too tightly. Jack finally found his senses and assisted John by holding Ellison down. John finished tying the leg off and shouted, "Jack, help me get him out!" Jack helped John get Ellison into a semi-standing position, being careful not to let to let his amputated stump touch the floor, but Ellison suddenly gripped John's arm and pulled him down to plead in a voice wracked with agony.

"J-John, you have to g-go get her."

"Who?" John said, bewildered.

"S-Savannah...she's up on the top f-floor...she was in the rec room up there, near m-my office..."

_"Why the hell didn't you tell me that earlier?"_ John screamed. He helped Jack shuffle Ellison over to the main lobby doors, which had been broken down by the scrambling tsunami of panicked office workers. Glass glittered everywhere. The air in the lobby was thick with black smoke. People were stampeding to get past them, but somebody stopped to stare. It was Mrs. Anderson, hair wild, dress suit torn, bare feet cut and bloody. "Mr. Ellison!" she shrieked.

"Help him!" John screamed. "Get him out of here! Now!" Mrs. Anderson obeyed and grabbed Ellison's arm as John let go. Jack pointed out to the street. "I think I see an ambulance outside!" he yelled. He hoisted Ellison higher off the ground and helped Mrs. Anderson carry him outside. "Let's get him to it!"

Ellison was quickly going into shock, but he managed to grab John's arm before the younger man ran off. "John, please s-save her," he slurred.

John squeezed his hand. "I promise," he said, meaning it, and ran off to the emergency stairwell down one of the connecting hallways.

It was the first time in five years that John Connor promised anything to anybody.

2

CONNOR, JOHN K

DOB: 02/28/1985

HT: 6'1" WT: 180 LBS EYES: GREEN

ETH: CAUCASIAN

KNOWN ALIASES: NONE

RELATIVE(S): CONNOR, SARAH J (SEE: FBI MOST WANTED)

RESIDENCE: LOS ANGELES, CA

EMPLOYER: ZEIRA CORPORATION INTERNATIONAL

JOB TITLE: SOFTWARE ENGINEER

CRIMINAL HISTORY: DUI 02/28/2013 (CT PROBATION INCOMPLETE)

Deckard quickly scanned Connor's subject profile and driver's license photo on his Android phone while fighting traffic into the Financial District. The streets were pure mayhem with panicked drivers and pedestrians fleeing the pluming smoke of the explosion. His car was struck several times by nervous motorists trying to change lanes or turn off the street. "God damn it!" he'd yelled at every impact on his Ford. "Just trash my fucking car, why don't you? What's next?"

He quickly saw what was next when the traffic abruptly cleared. Deckard swore under his breath when he came upon a crowd of business-dressed office workers and a mix of casually-dressed people clogging the street in front of him. They seemed to be just standing there, gawking at the expanding smoke. Deckard blared his car horn angrily but nobody moved nor seemed to hear him. He grabbed the emergency police strobe light that sat between the front seats and put it on the car's roof. A few people heeded the pulsating light and moved away but there were still too many people in the way. There was nowhere to go, so he put the car in parking mode temporarily.

Deputy US Marshal Danford sat impassively next to him, reverting to his cold, robotic state. He didn't flinch even when somebody banged on his passenger side window as they ran by. "We can get out and run the rest of the distance if this doesn't clear up," he offered. "We're only four blocks away."

Deckard sighed. He preferred the relative safety of his car but he couldn't just sit there. He could see and hear a multitude of emergency vehicles slowly making their way to the scene of the explosion. He undid his seat belt and got out of the vehicle, followed by Danford. Deckard looked up at the sky and saw maybe half a dozen LAPD spinners flying toward the smoke. He thought briefly about trying to flag one down to pick them up, but then gritted his teeth and took off jogging toward the ZeiraCorp building, Danford following close behind.

Everywhere Deckard looked he saw panic and brewing mayhem. He was in his senior year of high school when the South Central riots erupted in 1992, following the acquittal of the four cops caught on videotape beating Rodney King to shit. He'd grown up in San Bernardino, far enough from the mayhem to be affected by the cultural breakdown in the city, but close enough to have caught enough of it on TV to be outraged by the sudden deterioration of law and order. Scenes of parts of Los Angeles burning needlessly and reports of the senseless loss of lives and rampant property damage instilled in Rick Deckard a righteous fury that was exceeded only by his hatred of the Church seemingly abandoning him in his youth.

He'd joined the marines right after graduation, intending to put in his enlistment time and save up enough money for college. When the marines discharged him he enrolled in criminal justice classes at UCLA, and after he gained the necessary college credits he quickly enrolled in the LAPD police academy. When he was sworn in he started in patrol division, then moved up to vice, followed by a brief stint in internal affairs. By the time he made detective, in his early thirties, Deckard had seen some of the worst the city's underbelly tried to hide from the light of day.

The memory of watching his city tearing itself apart, however, was one that haunted him. He was seeing it again.

He and Danford rounded the corner of a Bank of America branch on Second Street and Deckard took in the disemboweled sight of the ZeiraCorp building. He stood for a moment in awe. Half the building was gone, nearly all of the parking garage structure completely blown away. The half of the building that still stood was a smoking ruin, its exposed office floors looking like a gutted carcass. Small fires continued to rage throughout the remains of the small highrise, and firefighters who'd just arrived were busy trying to put them out. The blast had damaged most of the surrounding structures, shattered every window facing the blast, thrown cars and traffic machines around like discarded toys. Memories of the Oklahoma City bombing and September 11 swept through the minds of nearly everyone who survived the explosion.

Deckard stared at the destruction for a moment that seemingly stretched forever. Then something on the ground, a dozen yards from the building, caught his eye: a downed LAPD spinner. An emergency crew was pulling somebody out. He ran over to see who was hurt and saw an immobilized Gaff being strapped to a gurney, his right leg at an odd angle. He looked partially conscious, moving his head in response to questions. Sitting in the rear of an ambulance was Bryant. His head was bandaged and his face bruised and puffy but he was fully conscious. And angry, as usual.

Deckard and the marshal approached Bryant, who was holding an ice pack against his swollen left cheek. "Gaff's a damn good pilot," the police captain said. "We should've both been killed. Explosion knocked us out of the air as we approached. Don't know if anyone else airborne got it, though."

Deckard nodded, asked, "You okay, sir?"

"Possible concussion for me, Gaff's femur is in pieces. We saw what happened. Blast originated from the garage. Connor parked his truck there around noon. Bomb must've been hidden in the truck, just like Oklahoma City." He paused for breath. "Whole city's blowing up, according to the news. Parts of south LA are burning, rioting, since this happened. You and Holden and the rest might be relegated to SWAT or riot duty later, but I wanna try to catch this Connor kid."

"Are you saying Connor did it?"

"Him or his mom. Either way I'm gonna take 'em down."

3

John got as far as the fifteenth floor when the smoke and exhaustion nearly overcame him. He paused for a minute on the steps to catch his breath, clamping his hands over his mouth to minimize smoke inhalation. _Of course, going on a little bender like you did last night will make anybody feel like a wheezing old man climbing over twenty stories, Connor,_ he chided himself. He girded himself before climbing again, and his memory of little Savannah Weaver, eight years old, being the target of Skynet and a Terminator before her mother (not-mother, he reminded himself) jumped into the future to pursue her other "child," her bastard AI creation, spurred him on.

He made it up two more stories before nearly tripping over the prone form of a woman on the stairwell. She was a small, frail-looking dark-haired woman in a black business dress with pale, almost transparent skin. He turned her over and quickly glanced at a visitor's badge pinned to her lapel: DR. SERENA KOGAN. Next to her lay a black briefcase that had apparently sprung open when she dropped it. Several papers partly spilled out and he glanced at the header of one, curious. It read: PROJECT ANGEL. John pressed his fingers against the bottom of her jaw, feeling for a pulse. She was alive.

The woman was probably making her way down before the smoke and dust overcame her, John guessed. He sighed. He needed to get to the top floor and was wondering how in the hell he was going to save this woman and Savannah when an unasked prayer was answered. Somebody was running down the steps. It was Barry Cohen, ZeiraCorp's chief legal counsel, and David Neilson, the chief operating officer. Neilson was trying to call somebody on his Android phone. Cohen carried nothing in his hands and stopped at the sight of John Connor kneeling by Dr. Kogan's unconscious form.

"Cohen, Neilson!" John shouted. He held Kogan's left hand up. "She's alive! Please get this woman out of here!"

Cohen hesitated, looked at the unconscious woman, then at John like he was the lowest form of life on earth. He was a short, graying, bespectacled man of about fifty with who always dressed in blue pinstriped suits and expensive loafers shined to a mirror-like sheen. They weren't shining now and his suit was dusty. Neilson was a younger man with disheveled brown hair in a dusty gray suit with no tie. He looked pleadingly at Cohen, confused, Android held limply against his ear. The billowing smoke from the destroyed half of the building made them cough and their eyes water.

"She's as good as dead, anyway, Connor," Cohen said coldly. "Leave her. But give me her case."

John couldn't believe what he just heard. His eyes darted back and forth between Kogan's limp body, her briefcase, and Cohen. "What's in the case that's so important you'll leave someone to die?" he shouted.

"None of your concern," huffed Cohen as he scooped up her briefcase and shoved the papers back in, snapping it shut. "If you want to save her, go ahead," he barked. "If you're smart you'll get out of here, which is what we're doing." He started downstairs with Neilson, the COO, reluctantly following.

John ran down behind Cohen and slammed him against the wall, twisting the lawyer's suit lapels. _"There's a woman dying here!"_ he screamed. Cohen winced and began to stammer. John pulled Cohen's face close to his and said, "I don't have time to dick around here, Cohen, so listen up: I want you and Neilson here to grab her and take her downstairs. I don't care what court case you're missing. Get her out the building. If you don't, I'll add one more casualty to this disaster. Got it?" He paused. "I'm going upstairs to get Ellison's daughter. Have you seen her?"

Cohen coughed and shook his head. "No, we didn't see anyone else up there. That's the truth."

John let go of him in disgust, and Cohen held his throat, trying to catch a breath. He looked into John's crazed eyes and decided the kid wasn't screwing with him. He immediately ran back up to the woman. "Let's go, Neilson," he panted as he lifted Dr. Kogan's head and shoulders from the floor. Neilson sighed heavily, put his phone in his pocket and helped Cohen with lifting the woman and carrying her downstairs. "Why the hell are you risking your life for Ellison's kid, Connor?" Cohen yelled up the stairs.

John resumed racing up the steps. "None of your business," he shot back as he ran.

He hoped that he didn't waste too much time. The ZeiraCorp building's infrastructure was as stable as any quake-rated building in downtown Los Angeles, but an explosion would have made it brittle. If there was major damage and if the framework was compromised, any of the floors would collapse. The smoke in the air got thicker as he heaved his body up the final steps and finally made it to the top floor.

John threw the fire exit door open and immediately regretted it. A thick cloud of smoke immediately enveloped John and he choked and gagged and dropped to his knees. He held his hands over his mouth, squeezed his eyes shut and knew he was too late.

_(Savannah,_ _I'm sorry. I failed you...)_

He started crawling into the corridor, feeling his way forward by pure instinct toward the executive office area, where the rec room was. The floor beneath him got hotter as he inched closer to his destination, and John knew there were fires still raging in the building, despite the fire-retardant system's efforts to put them out. The building had an automated sprinkler system to put out any accidental fires, but it was apparently no match for an intentional firebombing. John tried to get up to run and he collapsed, the heat and smoke conquering him. His lungs burned for oxygen and they felt compacted, like a vise quickly crushing his torso. He coughed up a wad of phlegm and saw blood in it. John, all his hope gone, began crying.

Then he felt the hand grip his arm, pulling him up.

John looked up in surprise but couldn't see anything through the thick smoke. The invisible force that startled him still exerted unyielding strength on his arm, bringing him to his feet.

The touch felt...familiar.

John stumbled forward, suddenly invigorated, somehow able to draw tortured breaths, and a strange thought shot through his mind...

_(...Cameron...?)_

...but he saw nobody standing anywhere near him.

John made it to the rec room, near Ellison's office, and heaved himself through the door. There was slightly less smoke wafting into the rec room as he looked frantically around. There were several sofas in the rec room, and he shambled over to one to find the slender body of a girl lying limply on it. He lunged forward and saw the long red hair. It was Savannah.

Without a second thought and with surprising strength he heaved her body from the sofa and threw her over his shoulders, her arms and legs dangling limply as he raced out of the room. As John crossed the threshold a loud sound of something crumbling reached his ears and he felt himself falling into space. The floor beneath him collapsed and he screamed as he fell into what lay below.

He felt his hands lose their grip on Savannah as they plummeted, and John frantically groped for anything to hold onto as he fell. The air suddenly cleared, and John found himself sprawled on top of a pile of rubble, staring into bright sunlight and the cityscape through a massive opening torn in the side of the building.

He looked around for Savannah and swore when he saw her limp body rolling off the rubble toward the edge, hurtling into nothingness. John dove for her, grabbing her soiled T-shirt as her body swung over the edge, and he felt the shirt tearing. He grabbed her dirty red hair and held on even as his own body was being pulled toward the edge. He used his other hand to let go of her shirt to hold onto something, anything, and his hand gripped something sticking out of the rubble, a severed power cable. They were both hanging off the ragged edge of the part ZeiraCorp building that had been blown away, and John felt his strength waning, his fingers slowly burning, unraveling their death grip around the pipe.

John Connor, atheist, heard himself crying out to God for help.

4

The LAPD spinner hovered about a thousand feet above the mayhem surrounding the smoking ruin of the ZeiraCorp building, its pilot scanning the ground below, reporting to headquarters the scene that was unraveling in the Financial District. All over the place she could see fires erupting, clouds of smoke reaching into the sky like garish plant tendrils. Crowds of people swarmed the streets, and she could see police vehicles being overturned, cops engaged in pitched battles with rioters. Looting was rampant throughout the city and she was thankful to be privileged to be above it all instead of on the ground when her radio snapped her from her thoughts.

"Lieutenant Williams," grated the voice on the radio, "Central is reporting police injuries from gang warfare in Rampart. Head on over there to help coordinate EMS and reinforcements ASAP."

Blair Williams replied, "Copy, Command, on my way. ETA five minutes." She nudged the spinner's steering stick to the right and smoothly swung the hovering vehicle around, marveling at the spinner's responsiveness, much faster than the choppers she was used to handling in the Army National Guard. The LAPD job came pretty much by accident, when a police official visiting the spinner proving grounds outside the city saw how well she piloted the new aerodyne craft, and asked her if she "wanted a full-time job to go with her part-time job" helping to train the pilots for the police force, which had been the first law enforcement department in the country to get to use the spinners. Lieutenant Williams had jumped at the opportunity, as she had a (sort-of) boyfriend in the LAPD's SWAT unit and saw a chance to see him a little more often.

Despite her exhilaration a small concern gnawed in her chest. Her boyfriend was probably one of the guys on riot duty battling the gangs. As the spinner pivoted around to fire its horizontal jets to take her to Rampart, Williams happened to see something strange on the blasted side of the ZeiraCorp building. Her curiosity overrode her sense of duty and she halted the spinner's motion, taking the craft closer to the edge of one of the blasted floors. She was astonished to see a man and what looked like a teenaged girl suspended over the edge, him holding her by her hair with one hand, his other hand holding on for dear life onto something sticking out of the rubble.

She made her decision in a fraction of a second. "Command, this is Williams, I'm assisting with rescue and recovery at ZeiraCorp. Will rendezvous with Rampart team at earliest convenience." She ignored the dispatcher's protests as she maneuvered the spinner closer to the edge of the building. The girl appeared lifeless, skin pale, her face bloody and her hair smoke-blackened, but the man seemed determined not to let her go. He looked like hell, clothes blackened by soot, his face caked with blood and nearly black as his hair. He looked up at Blair pleadingly, his eyes almost looking like he'd prayed for a miracle and God had delivered. She smiled and waved to him in acknowledgment. "I'm coming," she called out to him, even though he wouldn't hear her.

Blair brought the spinner up six feet underneath them and sprung the canopy open. The glass door swung upward and she undid her seat belt. Blair half-stood in her seat and called out, "Let her drop!"

The man obeyed and let go of the girl's hair. Her limp body fell to Blair's outstretched arms and she caught her. The spinner suddenly pitched to the left and Blair nearly dropped the girl over the side. She cursed as cross-currents whipped the spinner around, and she gently dropped the girl in the empty passenger seat and sat back down to quickly regain control of the vehicle. She brought the spinner back underneath the man and she motioned for him to drop down. He let go of the side of the building and landed on the rear of the spinner, behind the cockpit. He scrambled toward the open canopy as Blair reached out and pulled the girl over to her side and he fell into the passenger seat.

"Hold on," Blair said as she gently brought the spinner lower to the street. By that time the police had more or less restored order to the rubble-strewn area surrounding the destroyed ZeiraCorp building as fire crews continued to fight the various blazes caused by the explosion. Emergency medical crews had set up a large tent about half a block away to tend to the injured and dying.

Blair yelled into her helmet mic, "This is Williams, LAPD Aero 4873, inbound to emergency medical center in Financial District, two injured with possible smoke inhalation. Requesting emergency teams to have oxygen ready. Stand by." She turned on her spinner's sirens and flashed landing lights to let ground personnel know she was landing and police units guided her to a cleared area. Blair landed the spinner and shut the engines off.

"Than...thank...you..." the man slurred. "The...girl..."

"She'll be fine," Blair said as she clambered out of the spinner and and pulled the girl out. She wasn't breathing and her flesh was turning cyanotic. Blair yanked off her helmet, let her long black hair spill down her back and shoulders and began administering CPR to the girl. An EMS crew raced up with oxygen masks and bottles and one of them said, "We can take over, ma'am." Blair stopped CPR and stepped back to let them work on the girl. She watched for a moment while they worked to save her life and walked over to see a medic put an O2 mask on the man, still sitting in the spinner. He peered at her over the plastic nose piece, his eyes holding her in a thankful gaze.

Blair nodded to him and sat on the spinner's front end, suddenly weary. The man was helped out of the spinner's cockpit and he staggered over to her, pulling the O2 mask off. He shrugged off the protesting medic, coughed and asked, "Savannah...where is she?"

Blair pointed to the hospital tent and he saw Savannah being lifted onto a gurney. He ran over to see her but was stopped by a policeman. "Sir, please stand back," he said.

"I'm her brother," the man said. "Please let me through." The cop blinked and relented. Blair followed the man to the girl's side, hoping that she was going to be okay. The medics were still working on her, feeding her oxygen by intubating her and checking her blood pressure. It was dangerously low, but she did register a weak heartbeat on the portable EKG.

One of the medics looked up at the man and Blair and said, "She's breathing, but she inhaled a lot of smoke and her passageways look swollen. She needs to be taken to the nearest hospital for observation. Are you her next of kin, sir?"

"Yes."

"What is your name, sir?"

"John Connor."

"Relationship?"

He thought for a second. "Cousin. Her name is Savannah Weaver."

"We'll take care of Savannah, Mr. Connor. Please lie down, you look like you got it worse than she did."

John Connor leaned closer to Savannah's face. Her color was improving despite the soot tainting her pretty features. He gently caressed her cheek and felt tears rolling down his blackened cheeks. He lowered himself to her face, smiling.

"Squirrel runs around the tree," he whispered in her ear, "dives in the hole, then scurries out the other side."

Savannah's eyelids suddenly opened to slits, her precious blue orbs rolling to meet his. "John?" she tried to speak.

"Sssshhh, honey," he told her, planting a brotherly kiss on her forehead. He smiled despite the stinging pain it caused, his lips cracked like wood splinters. "Go to sleep. Your dad and John are watching over you. You'll see him soon." He gently held her hand, squeezing softly. "That's two you owe me, by the way," he said playfully.

Savannah squeezed John's hand firmly. She wanted to thank him but couldn't talk through the tube. She felt sleep overtake her and her grip loosened. John sighed and backed away to let the medics do their work.

Blair gently clapped his shoulder. He turned to meet her shining, almond-shaped eyes. "Mr. Connor," she said, slowly shaking her head, "that was the bravest thing I've ever seen in my life. You are a hero, sir."

"Glad you liked it," John said sardonically. He smiled a crooked grin. She was kinda cute, he thought and was delirious enough to almost ask her if she was seeing anyone when he heard his name being called. He wearily turned to see who it was and froze. Fear raised the hammer of his heartbeat and he felt his gut turn cold as he saw a face from his darkest nightmares approach him.

A stern dark-haired man with nearly black eyes, plainly dressed in a white button-down shirt, a skinny black necktie that was starting to become fashionable again and brown slacks cautiously strode up to meet John. He held an LAPD detective's badge in his left hand, other hand looking like it really wanted to reach for his sidearm in a hip holster. Behind him stood a well-groomed man in a flawless business suit. His face was robotic, completely expressionless and equally flawless, but his eyes glinted with something that touched on lunatic fascination. His right hand was already gripped around the handle of his sidearm.

But it was the first man's face that terrified John.

"LAPD," announced the man. "I'm Detective Deckard, this is Deputy US Marshal Danford. We need to ask you some questions, Mr. Connor, and probably place you in protective custody. Are you well enough to talk?"

John's throat closed up. He couldn't speak even if threatened. The man called himself Deckard, but John instantly knew him by another name. A name from his tormented memory that echoed through his skull.

_Cromartie. Oh my God..._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Awakenings

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

James Ellison awoke from a haze of anesthesia in starched white bed sheets with the distinct feeling that something was missing. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around, finding himself in a dim room flanked by cabinets and medical graphics. _Hospital,_ he thought groggily. He tried shifting his weight in the bed but his body felt strangely heavy.

He noticed the IV plugged into his left arm, looked up and saw the dextrose dripping from the plastic bag mounted above him. He then became aware of the steady beep of the vitals monitor next to his bed and sighed. His left leg was elevated by a cushion. The events of the day slowly flooded back to his memory and he shuddered involuntarily. With a painful heave he brought his left leg closer to his torso and reached down, praying that what he dreaded was nothing but a nightmare he was waking from.

His fingers groped for his foot. Instead they brushed against gauze bandaging where his ankle was. Pain lanced up his leg as he probed the tender area, and he withdrew his hand. Being careful not to bump his ankle against anything, he slowly moved his left leg down under the sheets, seeking any measure of comfort. None came. The amputated area throbbed, the pain beginning its march to batter away at the syrupy wall of narcotic-induced relief he desperately wanted to hide behind. Ellison lay in numbing disbelief for a while that seemed to dilate beyond minutes. Then he felt his tears streaming down his cheeks and began to sob uncontrollably.

_Deformed now,_ he thought bitterly. _I'll never walk normally the rest of my life. _

The door to his room suddenly opened and a woman in a pale blue nursing uniform entered. "Hello Mr. Ellison," she greeted pleasantly. "Are you feeling any pain?"

Ellison couldn't form the words to speak and simply nodded his head. He wiped the tears from his face and watched her as she replaced the nearly-depleted IV bag above him and and attached a small bottle to a catheter plugged into his arm. "This is morphine," she explained. "If you need it, simply push this button," she placed a small plunger in his hand, "and it will start injecting into your system in small doses. If the pain gets too intense, please let us know right away." She held what looked like a TV remote in front of him. "Just push this button and the nurse's desk will be notified."

"Thank you," he managed to croak. His throat and lips were painfully dry. "Water?"

"Yes sir," she said, grabbing a cup from a nearby counter. She disappeared into the bathroom and Ellison heard water running. She returned with the cup and placed it in his hand. Ellison gulped the water down and nearly choked. He coughed twice and handed her the cup. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." The nurse was a short and pretty woman, slightly overweight, with short brown hair flecked with gray strands. Her accent placed her origins somewhere in the Midwest. Her cheery tone pushed away some of Ellison's despair. "How long was I out?" he asked.

She checked his chart. "Almost four hours since your surgery. You lost a lot of blood from your accident. There was a developing infarction in your lower leg but we were able to clear the clot before it reached your femoral artery. You're a very lucky man, Mr. Ellison. The people who helped you out of the building were able to get you to an ambulance right before you went into major shock. Your blood pressure was extremely low. Are you comfortable? I can adjust your bed if you're not."

"No, I'm...fine..." he said slowly. "My...foot...were they able to...locate it? To reattach it...somehow?"

She shook her head sadly. "I haven't seen or heard anything about that, Mr. Ellison. I'm sorry, I just don't know if that's going to be possible."

He closed his eyes and nodded in bitter resignation. "It's okay...thank you, nurse."

She smiled sadly. "My name is Sandra, by the way."

Ellison opened his eyes and attempted a smile. "I'm James. Where am I, anyway?"

"Cedar Sinai Medical," Sandra said. She squeezed his hand. "Hang in there, James. This is a terrible thing you're going through now, but we'll get you through this. You were treated by one of the best shock trauma units in the country." She paused, then asked, "Are you a believing man, James?"

His eyes brightened at that. "Yes, I am. And I believe God brings everybody to something that tests them, to make them stronger. To prove that what we bring to Him will stand the test of fire He'll put it through."

"Are you a Baptist, James?"

"No. I was raised Catholic."

She gave him a quizzical look. "If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought you were a southern preaching man from Georgia or someplace, the way you talk."

He chuckled, and the small laugh actually felt good. "I have a brother in Atlanta, and he sometimes sounds like T.D. Jakes when we talk. I tease him about that, telling him he should help start a revival down there." They shared a hearty laugh, and Ellison was very happy to have Sandra there. For a moment he nearly forgot about the pain, about the loss of his limb, and about Savannah.

Savannah. _Oh dear Lord..._

"My daughter," he said, killing the laughter. He sat up quickly. His face was pale. "Savannah. She was in the building when the explosion happened. She was there helping out today, like an intern. We were going to get something to eat after I got done work and I lost track of time. I asked one of my employees to get her out of there..." He tried scrambling out of the bed but Sandra lunged forward and with surprising strength for a woman as small as her held him down.

"No James!" she said, gripping his shoulders. "You can't go anywhere in your condition. Please calm down. I'm sure she's okay. I haven't heard anything about a Savannah Ellison, but I can check to see if she was admitted here."

"Please," he said through gritted teeth, "I have to know if she's okay." The pain began to grind its way up his leg and spine. He collapsed into his pillow and sobbed in spite of himself. _Oh God, why are You doing this?_ his soul begged. _I lost my foot, now I may have lost my daughter? Why is so much being taken from me?_

Sandra checked his vitals and laid a hand on his cheek and forehead. No fever, which was good. "James, I'm going to check and see if Savannah came through downstairs in Emergency. I promise I'll be back soon." She squeezed his hand once more and exited the room.

He sat for a moment and let the tears flow freely. _Why did I bring her to work today?_ Ellison silently agonized. _Dear God, was she sacrificed for something You have planned? Or for my sins? How did I offend You so much to demand that she be taken? Did I kill John too by sending him to get her? Did I kill both of them? Or did You? I don't know. Lord, please tell me they're okay...please...oh God my foot HURTS..._

Alone and in encroaching agony, James Ellison began to question his faith.

2

John Connor was treated at the emergency medical tent set up near the smoking ruins of the ZeiraCorp building. His injuries weren't life-threatening but the medics wanted him to be taken to the nearest hospital for observation. John's air passageways were mostly clear but there was concern that there could still be swelling and he was given antibiotics to treat any infection. He'd been cut and bruised by his fall through the floor but nothing appeared broken. Still, he walked with a noticeable limp over to where Savannah was being wheeled into the back of an ambulance.

"Where are you taking her?" he asked the EMS crew.

"Cedar Sinai," answered one. "We got a call saying her father's already there."

John nodded and immediately felt relieved. They needed to be together. He wanted to text or call Ellison and let him know she was going to be there but figured the ZeiraCorp CEO was either in surgery or sedated. Before they shut the ambulance doors John hopped into the back and checked on Savannah one more time. She was awake and was fitted with an O2 mask instead of an intubator and seemed alert when John brushed her stringy red hair out of her face. At thirteen, she was beginning to look amazingly like her mother. "Hey, squirt," he said to her.

"Hey," she replied through the mask. Her voice was gravelly but her rosy color had returned to her lightly freckled cheeks. She fixed her quivering eyes on his and smiled. "Are you coming with me, John?"

"You're going to be with your dad pretty soon. I'll be there later today to see how you guys are doing. Promise."

"Is Dad okay?" she wheezed.

John thought hard before answering. "He's gonna be okay, honey. He...got hurt, but he'll be fine. He can't wait to see you. Just relax and try to sleep. They're gonna take care of you. I'll see you soon." He planted a kiss on her forehead and turned to jump out of the ambulance when he felt her hand grip his.

"John?" she wheezed.

"Yeah, Savannah?"

A tear trickled down her face. She squeezed his hand tightly. "Thank you for saving me. I knew you would."

John smiled and felt his own tears welling. He really did think of her as family, often his only family anymore. Savannah had etched her place in John's heart almost from the first moment they'd met in Dr. Sherman's office, when Savannah and her mother landed on Skynet's hit list. His accountability to her was permanently cemented when he and Cameron rescued her from her from a harrowing attempt on her life that resulted in Derek, his uncle, getting killed.

_(Can't protect your real family, can you, Connor?)_

John swallowed and shut out the voice of the enemy inside him. He leaned down to kiss Savannah's cheek and said, "You never have to thank me, honey." He brushed her hair from her face. "I'll always be there for you when Dad isn't around."

"Promise?" she rasped.

He nodded. "Promise."

He let go of her hand and exited the ambulance. He happened to look up and see Blair lift off in her spinner, the strange craft beginning its curious spin as it rose. She caught his gaze for a second and waved to him. He smiled and waved back, silently thanking her. Then he saw the spinner stabilize and roar off into the west, disappearing into the sun.

Detective Deckard and the fed were waiting for John as he walked away from the departing emergency vehicle. He turned to watch it race away and sucked in air as he turned to face Deckard. Danford, the fed, was looking down at his smartphone, ignoring all around him. His waxy look made John's cheeks suddenly numb.

The detective looked at John and said, "When we first met a few minutes ago, you almost looked like you knew me. I don't remember us ever meeting though."

_(Reese...do we have a John Reese? Excellent...)_

John swallowed, said, "You look like somebody I met once. I don't think you'd like who it was."

The detective gave John an unfriendly smirk. "I've met a lot of charming people."

John looked from Deckard to the emotionless fed, Danford, who put his phone away and looked into John's eyes with a vapid fascination. The look made John shudder. _Metal,_ John thought, although the fed made no move to attack him. Danford's body language, however, spoke of a potential for violence that could level a city block if unleashed. John didn't want to provoke him, but the possibility that he was staring down a series T-888 Terminator unit made every muscle in John's body tense for that familiar fight-or-flight impulse.

And when a Terminator was after you, your best option was to simply run.

Deckard was a different matter entirely. John was convinced the man was fully human, but the detective's face still haunted him. John's memory immediately invoked memories of a terror that once relentlessly stalked him: Cromartie, the Terminator posing as a substitute high school teacher, who tried to kill him when John answered during class roll call back in 1999.

He was saved by Cameron, the female Terminator from the future sent back in time to protect him, who'd quickly befriended him on the first day of school. Cromartie had chased John into the parking lot, where John tried to hide. The cyborg assassin had cornered him but was momentarily mowed down by a truck driven by Cameron. She flung the cab door open and spoke the words that John knew for certain was a universal greeting used by the future human resistance movement:

_"Come with me if you want to live."_

John didn't spare a second thought. Ever since that moment when he jumped into the truck with Cameron, his life was spent running and hiding. Cromartie was only one of many nearly-indestructible cyborg enemies who'd relentlessly hunted him, but John had hoped he'd never see his face again. At least, not Cromartie's original face, before he underwent body-and-facial reconstruction out of necessity following his disastrous attack on John, his mother and Cameron in the bank vault all those years ago, where they'd used a makeshift Time Displacement Device to jump eight years ahead to escape.

John coughed. So this must have been Cromartie's first human template in the original timeline, he mused, before he and Weaver followed John Henry into that nightmare future where John Connor wasn't supposed to exist and Skynet ruled supreme, having no real challengers to fight it.

"Let's just say that this other guy wasn't really charming at all," he deadpanned.

Deckard bit his lip and nodded. "We need to talk, Mr. Connor. But not here."

"Do I have a choice?"

"I'm afraid not. This is a federal investigation with the cooperation of the City of Los Angeles Police and you've been identified as a possible material witness."

John rolled his eyes and held his hands out. "Am I under arrest, then?"

"We'll find out soon," the fed, Danford, said icily.

3

Colorado Springs, August, 2013

The North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, first became aware of the explosion in the heart of Los Angeles almost before anyone else outside LA did. The first news reports filtered out of Southern California about five minutes after the detonation, thanks to social networking on mobile devices and news choppers flying over the city. But NORAD's satellites, orbiting thousands of miles overhead, had seen it first and beamed the first pictures to the image analysts glued to their computer monitors in the operations center at Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado.

NORAD was normally tasked with providing the first warnings of enemy missile launches or other airborne attacks against US soil, but almost nothing on the ground escaped its notice with its armada of GPS and ground imaging satellites that covered nearly every square inch of the earth's surface. When the bomb detonated in the parking garage of the ZeiraCorp building, NORAD saw the thermal signature blossom on the map almost immediately. Following the events of September 11, 2001, it was tasked to the Air Force officers and technicians nestled at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains to be quickly alerted by such a catastrophe.

The commander of NORAD, General Robert Brewster, stood in the operations center staring at one of the big screen monitors lining the walls. The threats may have changed over the years, but NORAD's job didn't. He looked at the thermal signature the dotted the middle of LA and silently swore. His daughter was in the city, albeit in the Reseda area, but his fatherly concern gnawed at him. Then, almost on cue, his phone got an incoming text.

It was his daughter. I'M ALRIGHT, the message read. NO MORE BOMBINGS IN THE CITY. WILL CALL YOU LATER. LOVE, KATE. Brewster sighed, his mind relieved. Kate was working and living in LA as a successful veterinarian and the only real threat she'd likely face would be a rabid dog. An Air Force major approached him with an Android tablet displaying a preliminary report of the blast. Brewster quickly scanned through it, looking for anything of interest. "Was there a spectroanalysis done?"

"Yes sir," the major said, scrolling his finger down the report. "There." Brewster read through it and his brow furrowed. What he read in the report was disturbing enough until he got to the end. Then his stomach roiled.

If what he was reading was correct, then he needed to quickly call Homeland Security, which had overarching authority to deploy FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) and NEST (Nuclear Emergency Support Team), and the FBI. And possibly recommend raising the nuclear defense condition threat level from 5 to 4. Brewster's thoughts fleeted back to Kate, wanting to call her to tell her to get out of LA, but there were more important people to call first. He immediately made his mind up and handed the tablet back to the major.

Brewster jogged to his command post above the operations center and activated a secure phone line. He made the call to his counterpart at Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha, Nebraska, General Frank Reichs, commander of the US Strategic Command, recommending an escalated alert status, if only temporarily. Reichs agreed to alert the Secretary of Defense, who would then notify the President, who had overall command authority over the release of nuclear forces in the event of battle conditions. Brewster didn't think they were at war with anybody at present. But one charged with maintaining his nation's vigilance cannot take chances. No large-scale military activity had been detected by Russia or China. No ICBMs were launched, no strategic bombers were en route to US airspace, but a glaring fact had been laid bare by the initial analysis of the downtown LA blast.

Traces of tritium 213 had been detected in the air following the explosion. A small-yield nuclear weapon of an unusual nature had been detonated in the heart of an American city.

4

Los Angeles, August, 2013

John Connor was escorted to the Federal Building on Wilshire Boulevard. He wasn't handcuffed nor read his Miranda Rights but the air of suspicion circling him never dissipated. His iPhone had been immediately confiscated and John almost felt naked without it. He, Deckard and the fed were soon sitting in a small room with a table, three chairs, and a large two-way mirror that dominated one wall. John wondered who was standing behind it watching them.

Deckard had set a cup of coffee before John but it sat untouched. The police detective sipped his own frequently. A text came into his phone and he quickly checked it. It was his wife, Iran, asking him if he was alright. Deckard texted her back saying he was, no ETA for when he'd be home. A reply shot back: SAME AS ALWAYS. He frowned.

A thick manilla folder lay on the table before them and Deckard opened it to reveal a stack of papers with a mug shot of Sarah Connor on top. Danford sat with his hands clasped together on the table on one side between them. His dead eyes stared into John's. John looked away, his flesh crawling. He sat with his arms loosely folded on the table. Deckard saw the ugly scars tracing their way up the kid's flesh and his cheeks twitched.

"Are you sure you're okay, Mr. Connor?" Deckard asked. "Did you have a doctor look you over?"

"I'm fine," John said, shrugging. His breathing had improved but the urge to cough would tempt him frequently. His adrenaline still pumped. Already his legs were restless, and they shuffled of their own accord.

Deckard nodded and began arranging some of the papers on the table. The photos of his mother were five years old, taken when she was incarcerated after her arrest at a movie theater upon meeting James Ellison there. John was always sure that Ellison had something to do with Sarah's jailing despite his claims to simply be a messenger for Catherine Weaver. He glanced at her hardened features, seeing no defeat in her eyes. He wanted to stare at the mug shot for a while. He hadn't seen his mother for over two years. They had shared exactly two phone calls since she'd disappeared from the grid, both of them quick, both of them following news events of bombings at major technology firms in California and Nevada.

She told him she loved him before hanging up abruptly. John had smashed his cell phone both times in anguish.

Deckard said, "John, you're not under arrest at this time, but we do need to ask you a lot of questions regarding the incident today at ZeiraCorp and your mother. If at any time you wish to stop answering questions and speak with a lawyer, you're within your rights to do so. However, we will have to detain you if it's determined that you're withholding information that may assist with a federal investigation into a terrorist bombing."

"You're not federal," John pointed out. "Mr. Roboto here is. I'm surprised that you're point man on this, not him." He glanced at Danford, who maintained his icy facade.

"I'm assigned to a federal unit to act as liaison between the city and the government," Deckard explained, "mostly because your mother's a fugitive who operated within the city's boundaries and you may have been in contact with her. The marshal here is in charge, and I'm sure he'll have questions for you, Mr. Connor. All we want is to bring your mother in safely and we're asking you to help us."

"I don't know where my mother is," John said, coughing once. "That's my answer to all your questions. I don't need a lawyer and you can't detain me any longer than twenty four hours if I'm not being charged with a crime. I know my rights, pal."

"Actually, there is no limit to how long we may hold you," Danford said. "You were convicted of a traffic felony and under court probation. And we can charge you with perjury, Mr. Connor."

John almost laughed. "For what? Telling you the truth? I don't know where she is! That's not perjury. I haven't spoken with my mother for over a year. I haven't tried to call her and she's made no attempt to contact me."

"Are you sure?" Danford asked.

John looked at the fed like the man was stupid. "'Sure?' Holy shit, look at my phone records, for Christ's sake! I haven't made a call to her nor received a call from her in the past year! Zero! Go ahead and subpoena Verizon for my calls. You don't have to take my word for it."

Danford smiled humorlessly. It wasn't a pleasant look. "Actually, Mr. Connor, with recent amendments to the Patriot Act of 2002, the government has authority to intercept wireless communications if there is probable cause to suspect a terrorist activity is about to take place or if a terror cell is planning to conduct an attack. The law can be broadly defined and implemented at the discretion of proper authorities to protect the general populace." He reached into his suit pocket and took out an Android smartphone. He fiddled with it for a moment, then showed John what was on the display. John squinted at the information, then his eyes widened. Danford was showing him his unbilled cell phone records for the day.

"What the fu-" John started to say.

Danford said, "If you look at the entry at 1:05 pm, it shows a call made to your phone by an unknown party that lasted about a minute. We ran a reverse directory check on the blocked caller ID to a prepaid phone service and obtained the number. It was a prepaid phone purchased in Burbank a month ago by a woman matching your mother's description at a cellular store specializing in such devices. Did you take that call, Mr. Connor?"

Deckard's face tightened at the fed. _So that's what you were doing quietly behind my back all this time,_ he thought angrily. _Would have been nice to have had you share that info earlier, you asshole._

"I didn't know that call came in," John spat. "I was in a part of the building that couldn't get a cell signal, anyway. Whoever it was didn't even leave a voice mail."

"What part of the building was that?" Danford asked suddenly.

"The basement," John replied, and he almost face-palmed himself, immediately regretting his answer. He saw the fed's face contort to a _gotcha!_ expression. _Shit!_ he thought. _I'm a retard..._

"What were you doing in the basement at the time of the explosion, Mr. Connor?"

John thought quickly. "We have a server farm way down there," he said, "and I was checking on some binary routines. We've had issues with our primary network management server. I was trapped down there when the explosion occurred." He coughed. His alibi was flimsy and it sounded like bullshit as he said it.

"How did you get out? The elevator couldn't have worked." 

"Took the stairs. Duh."

Danford's cold smile remained in place. "Seems rather interesting that you were down in a relatively safe area when the building exploded. Especially since the explosion came from the parking garage. Almost right after you parked your truck there. Then you get a phone call from your mother. Do you think she was warning you to get out of the building? Or was she calling to try to detonate the bomb somehow?"

John felt his hands grip the edge of the table. Deckard noticed it and braced himself to restrain the kid if there was an outburst of violence. So far he'd been content to let the marshal take over the conversation, as it was mostly his jurisdiction anyway. But he was relieved to see Connor seem to loosen his grip and relax. He could, however, still sense every muscle in the kid's body tighten. The marshal was trying the tired old good cop/bad cop routine and he'd blown it. The kid was closing up just when there seemed to be an opportunity. _Dumbass feds always screwing it up..._

"Maybe I should call my lawyer," John said.

"Your call," said Deckard. Irritation laced his tone. "Wanna make a phone call?"

"I should if you're going to arrest me for no good reason."

"We don't want to arrest you, Mr. Connor. We want your mother. Only you can help us bring her in safely," said Danford. "Do you love her?"

John shrugged. "I'm her son."

"Then please help us find her. She's a danger to herself as well as others."

John scoffed. "What kind of danger? You don't know that she bombed ZeiraCorp."

Deckard tapped a page he turned over on the table. "We have probable cause to suspect her in almost a dozen bombings of technology companies and computer centers in the past two years, Mr. Connor. Two of the biggest ones were a huge data center used by Google and other web providers in San Francisco and a factory making..." he glanced down at the page, "...nanoprocessor components for military applications near Reno. Then there were firebombings of tech company homes all over the state and three bombings of planned parenthood clinics. Witnesses reliably placed her at the scene of nearly all of these places before the bombings occurred."

Despite his anger, John tried his damnedest to suppress a smile. Sarah had always had a beef with abortion doctors, but her main fury was always aimed at technology makers she'd suspected of aiding in Skynet's development. Those three bombings of abortion clinics seemed almost like an afterthought. _Been staying busy, haven't we, Mom?_

"What is disturbing, however," Deckard continued, "is that ZeiraCorp is the first one where there were significant casualties. Reports are saying over a hundred people were killed, hundreds more injured, and a lot of the surrounding architecture was damaged. In every previous bombing a threat was called in and the places were mostly evacuated in time. Not this one. There was no warning at all. And this was a very large blast. It completely blew away the parking garage and half the building. Your mother used your truck before you were legally permitted to drive it again to run some errands all over the city. Did you ever think to check on it while you had it parked on Overland?"

"Didn't have an incentive to," John said, coughing once.

"Did you leave a spare set of keys in the truck?"

"Nope. Just one set. Had 'em on me at all times."

"The parking attendant would have had a spare."

"I never provided one. In any case, if they needed to move the truck they could have called in a repo guy with a master key set."

Deckard was grabbing at straws. "But there would be a log of anybody taking out the truck, even in the dead of night. Closed-circuit cameras, sensors, the gate, all that."

John gave a smug half-smile. "You don't know my mother, detective. She's very resourceful. How do you think she escaped from Pescadero?"

"Had it all planned out, didn't you, kid?" Deckard growled. He looked into Connor's dark green eyes and saw a hardened resolve that he'd seen in only the toughest street punks. He was losing the kid and tried one last gambit.

"Regardless," he said in a low voice, "doesn't it bother you that your mother may have tried to kill you?"

John didn't answer. His face closed up, drawing in everything for a siege. He was done talking.

Deckard stared at Connor, feeling the anger welling within. The kid's obstinacy was irritating him. For a brief moment he was sure Connor was going to crack and provide them something to work with, if the damned marshal hadn't pressed too hard. As if reading the cop's thoughts Danford abruptly stood and said, "Outside, detective." Deckard blinked, looked at the fed, and haphazardly collected the papers on the table and stuffed them into the folder, picked it up and followed Danford outside the room, leaving John sitting inside, sullen-faced.

"Turn him loose," said Danford.

Deckard angrily said, "I agree. You can't fuck this up anymore than it is now."

Danford looked puzzled. "You disapprove of my methods?"

"I'm disgusted at your methods. You're not a cop. Who the hell are you?"

Danford looked perplexed. "I'm a fully sanctioned federal marshal and for now I have tactical command in this fugitive hunt. I believe we have an opportunity here."

"We probably had an opportunity until you had to get all cute and try to get under his skin too early!" Deckard was shouting but he didn't care. The marshal's stupidity was lighting that smoldering iron that burned in the base of his brain. "He won't talk now. You see that look in his eyes? I don't know where he's been or what he's done, but he's got that look I've seen from the guys who got back from Iraq or Afghanistan, and he's younger than most of them. I swear he's been tortured before. You see those scars on his arms? The ones that are all an inch apart from each other? Somebody tried to carve him up with a knife or something. He won't be broken easily."

Danford smirked. "We won't have to break Connor. His mother tried to contact him once. She may try again soon. Let him go and watch him. She'll come to us."

Deckard stared at him. "With the city tearing itself apart, LAPD can't spare any resources to stake him out."

The marshal shook his head. "Don't worry, detective, we have that taken care of."

Deckard didn't like the sound of that. Bryant would kill him for letting the Connor kid go, but the fed's logic, while flawed, won in the end. And since they were dealing with a terrorist incident the government was in charge. He sighed and opened the interrogation room door.

Deckard said, "You're free to go, Mr. Connor."

5

Colorado Springs, August, 2013

The initial warning came from the PAVE PAWS (Phased Array Warning System) Air Force station in Clear, Alaska. The phased array antenna looked like a giant stereo speaker block that was beveled on all four sides. Unlike older mechanical radar arrays, the PAWS antenna never physically moved to detect inbound threats, as its aiming, or beam steering, was done rapidly by electronically controlling the timing, or phase, of the incoming and outgoing signals. Any airborne object detected by the phased beaming was collected into a computerized database for immediate analysis of its size, trajectory and speed. The Clear AFB warning station covered an area of the earth comprising the US Pacific Northwest, eastern Russia, Alaska, western Canada, and roughly half the Arctic Circle. Anything of an unusual nature was sent to the Air Force techs who made up the tracking team on base, and objects deemed to be a possible threat were forwarded to the US Strategic Command's Space Control Center at Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't a small plane or other kind of aircraft, and it wasn't an animal. The object's speed was too fast, coming in from space at nearly Mach 1.

General Brewster was notified of the object warning while on the phone with the director of the Department of Homeland Security. The message came into his PC monitor as an "Anomalous Object Entry" alert and he put the DOH director on hold while he addressed it. He read the initial report and was about to dismiss it as a meteor entering the atmosphere when NORAD's alert klaxons shrieked. He rang the Space Command's operations desk and shouted, "What the hell is going on?"

"Sir," answered the colonel on the other end, "We have an inbound missile warning. Possible MIRV entering Canadian airspace at roughly Mach 1, trajectory looking like it will take it into central US, estimated arrival at target is twenty-two minutes. Wait...yes, we confirm size and shape of object to be a reentry warhead."

"Target location?" Brewster began to sweat. He was a year away from retirement and this happens. It couldn't be real. Today was too beautiful a day in Colorado to have this happen.

"We see it making landfall at roughly four-one degrees north, zero-nine-five west...oh, Christ, it's Offutt."

"STRATCOM. God..._damn_ it. Okay, keep tracking it and-" He was distracted by the sight of multiple red dots appearing on the large video screens in the ops center. "Colonel, do you see it?"

"I do sir. We count nine MIRVs inbound. One of them is heading straight for you. ETA is twenty minutes. No idea of weaponry but we estimate sixty kilotons each bird, Other targets are Tampa, DC, Norfolk, San Diego, and Kansas City. Two of them are coming in shallow in opposite directions. Looks like a precision decapitation attempt with EMP to cripple the rest, sir."

_Cut off the heads... _Brewster watched as the ops center erupted in near-chaos, officers and non-officers alike chattering in raised voices and rushing around. He could smell the panic of his people, all having to deal with something that they'd trained for, waited their whole lives for, and now, having to finally deal with it, degenerated to frightened children.

He put the colonel on hold. _"ROOM, ATTENTION!"_ Brewster shouted. All activity ceased and his staff stood at rigid attention. "If I see this crap happen again, I'll have you all court-martialed. Now, as you all were, but I want somebody to verify that this is either real or a damned computer exercise. If this is real, then we will transfer operations to the mountain and I want preparations made now. Nobody leaves, nobody cries, we are soldiers and we will do our job. Now move!" Activity resumed, but at a calmer pace. Nobody cried, for which Brewster was relieved.

The alert came over the PA: "This is not a simulation, repeat, this is not a simulation. Multiple inbound warheads are being tracked. ETA nineteen minutes to impact."

_Kate. Oh dear God..._ Brewster picked up his phone and dialed his daughter. She didn't answer, and Brewster cursed. She was a vet, and she was probably at work. He tried her office phone and got the voicemail service. Kate's secretary was often erratic, leaving the desk to do God-knew-what and Brewster wished his daughter would fire her. He ended the call and busied himself with preparing to move to Cheyenne Mountain, where the old NORAD ops center was located a mile within the granite and secured by 25-ton steel doors.

He'd try calling Kate once there, provided the EMP blasts didn't fry most of the country's electronics. He had no idea who the enemy was, but he was notified by General Reichs, who also had a warhead with his name on it, that he was moving nuclear response readiness to DEFCON-2 and transferring himself and staff to the command post aircraft. All over the country, warning klaxons were sounding at military bases stretching from Pearl Harbor to Virginia Beach.

America's arsenal, both conventional and nuclear, was quickly awakening to defend its soil.

But it wasn't the only entity that had awakened.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Blackout

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

It was early dusk when John was let out of the federal building. They'd given him back his iPhone and he made a mental note to check it out on his laptop as soon as he got home to make sure it wasn't LoJacked. As a precaution he turned off the GPS settings completely and did a quick check for any foreign programs installed. None were found. He'd been in the interrogation room for an hour but they'd held him in the building for a total of nearly two hours. _Plenty of time for the FBI or whoever to hack it,_ he thought angrily. John seriously thought about throwing the phone away. His mind and body were stretched nearly to their limit, but the psychological stress was somehow worse than the physical.

He could hear gunfire in the distance, sounding like firecrackers, could hear people screaming. The glow of fires set by the explosion and rioters could be seen across the urban landscape of LA. Car horns honked and beeped like radio static all over the city. Choppers and spinners crossed the dimming sky, their lights like roaming stars orbiting each other.

To John, it was almost like landing in 2027 again, feeling like a stranger in a strange and dangerous land.

"How am I supposed to get home?" he asked Deckard as the detective escorted him out through the parking garage exit.

"I wouldn't walk," Deckard said without a trace of humor. "City's still dangerous, although the governor finally called in the National Guard. You'll see soldiers out there with real guns and real ammo, and the curfew's set for eight PM, so no funny business. Don't be out on the streets unless you have authorization by the police to do so. Fires are still being set and places are getting looted left-and-right. Believe me, it's bad, but I still think the '92 riots were worse. I'm not seeing or hearing the racial hatred, the senseless killings. But don't take any chances anywhere. The MTA still seems to be running, so I'd choose that to get around. Do you need any money for it?"

John shook his head. "I'm good."

"Where're you headed?"

"Cedars Sinai. I have a promise to keep to a couple of friends there. Just a short haul and then I'll try to bum a ride home. Maybe tomorrow I'll go car-shopping and buy some piece of junk."

Deckard shrugged, lit a cigarette, then said, "See ya around then, kid. Be careful."

"Yeah, see ya," John said, his voice trailing.

Deckard felt Connor's hesitation and blew smoke. "Got something else to talk about?"

John shrugged. Despite the face of the killer cyborg that haunted him, he somehow had a feeling that the cop could be trusted. "I want to find my mother," he said. "Everything I told you in there was the truth, that I have no idea where she is, so I guess we have to wait for her to make the next move."

Deckard nodded in agreement, took a long drag, and said, "I have a feeling we don't have to wait for long." He held up his pack of Marlboros, offering one to John. John declined. "Don't smoke," he said.

"Don't blame you. Things 'll make you stink, then kill you. We'll help you find your mother...if you want to help us." He took a long drag and added, "You know she tried to kill you, John."

John spat on the sidewalk. "I can't bring myself to believe that. Not after all the years we spent together, all the things we did and said to each other as mother and son. I would die for her, detective, but I couldn't be with her anymore after I...went away for a while. I came back and she changed, turned into something I vowed I'd never become...but ended up becoming anyway."

"What was that?"

John looked into space. _A murderer,_ he wanted to say, but that would have opened a Pandora's Box that would never be closed, the cop would haul him back inside, and would cause other things that only God knew. But he desperately wanted to explain his anguish, his need to torture himself over the decisions he'd made that haunted him, in particular his ill-fated attempt to get Cameron back, not even really knowing at the time why he wanted to. It was probably the most impulsive choice he'd ever made, and it had cost him much more than two years of his life in a hideous future.

The anger at his failure to save Cameron had completely consumed John. He'd spent many nights brooding, between agonizing sobriety and roaring drunkenness. But in his rare moments of lucidity, when he thought about it, the more he realized that his mother wasn't really the one who changed at all. It was him.

The consequences of his actions had not only robbed him of his last vestiges of innocence, but also his emotions, and he had never been able to reconnect to his mother with the same bond they had before his jump, so he pushed her away, much in the same manner he'd pushed Cameron away following the time she went temporarily bad, when she reverted to her original Skynet programming and tried to kill John. He fixed her afterward, but he quickly abandoned bonding with her to pursue a relationship with Riley Dawson that ultimately went nowhere.

He often thought that solidified Cameron's decision to let John Henry erase her and take her chip. She couldn't tolerate how cold he'd been to her, he decided. He hadn't really meant to treat her like he did, but that couldn't be undone.

If his life was an endless wheel inescapable to fate, then he certainly did not stray from that path. John began drinking, whoring around, pursuing relationships with total strangers that went worse than nowhere and ignoring his mother. All she wanted was to hold him and let her in, try to make him warm again. But he closed all his doors, unable to let go of the anger. He and Sarah Connor had become distant, resulting in an estrangement that left him feeling colder than he'd ever been when he landed naked and shivering from the time jump, surrounded by suspicious strangers and two family members who didn't know him at all and didn't believe a single word of his story.

Derek. Kyle. His uncle and his father. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces, their callous, unfriendly eyes. Cold.

His mother had the same eyes when they parted ways three years ago. She had become a stranger to him, too. All because of his anger and his inability to simply let her in and comfort him like she did when he was a child. He grew cold, and in turn his existence turned to ice.

John sighed, too exhausted to talk. "Cold," he said instead.

Deckard nodded. He finished his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe. He had his own problems at home with him and Iran on the down slopes of a failing marriage, but the kid sounded like he had issues that made his own sound like a Girl Scouts meeting.

"Better get going," he said in parting as he walked back into the building.

"Watch your friend," John said suddenly.

Deckard turned around, puzzled. "Huh?"

"The fed, watch him. He's not who he says he is."

Deckard almost asked John what he meant before he heard himself mutter, "Yeah, I know what you mean."

2

Air Force One, August, 2014

The Boeing E-4B aircraft roared from the runway at Andrews Air Force Base and into the air faster than the pilots would have liked, but they were in a hurry. The President of the United States was on board, and he was trying to outrun a nuclear warhead streaking from the sky for him.

"How much longer?" the President asked as he tightened his seatbelt in the middle deck's conference room. His Secret Service detail had literally carried him off the sofa he was lounging in while watching his beloved Red Sox play the Royals and shoved him onto Marine One, which had very nearly crashed into the White House in its haste to pick him up for Andrews. Thus began Operation _Nightwatch_, the executive half of the United States' program for waging thermonuclear war.

His National Security Advisor, Ann Goldstein, sat in the seat next to him, held her hand over her cell phone mic and said, "Ten minutes until impact. Confidence is high. NORAD estimates the airburst will be over the Capitol Building. We still have no idea who started the attack, but Cheyenne is saying the warheads are MIRVs probably launched from an orbiting platform, very likely a FOBS system like the ones the Soviets experimented with back in the sixties."

"'FOBS?'" the President reiterated, bewildered. It was jargon he wasn't familiar with.

"Fractional Orbital Bombardment System," Goldstein explained. "The idea is to place a satellite in orbit loaded with warheads and drop them on targets below, like throwing rocks from an overpass onto your windshield."

"Christ," the President muttered. Ten minutes. Seven cities were targeted, and initial estimates said that about two million people would be immediately killed. He thought for a second. "Did the Russians...is it them?"

Goldstein shook her head. "We don't know, sir. I'm on the phone with the CIA director right now trying to find out. The Russians certainly had the capability but intel was sketchy on it. Most of their FOBS launches in the sixties were test vehicles, with only one real one put in orbit, but they were conventional explosives...at least, that's what we were told to believe at the time. The Soviets never signed the UN Outer Space Treaty of 1968, and neither did we. Both our countries experimented with orbiting bomb platforms, and there was also NASA's Orion program-"

"Get me the Russian President on the phone, now!" the President snapped. "We have only a few minutes and I need to know who we're at war with!" His eyes were wild. His wife and their two sons were in New Hampshire visiting family. He thanked God that New England didn't seem to be a primary target, at least for now. Goldstein put the CIA director on hold and dialed the United States embassy in Moscow. She spoke with the ambassador for a moment and she told the President that the Russian President was just waking up, it being early morning there. The President didn't care.

It took nearly five minutes to get the Russian President on a satellite linkup with a translator. The Russian sounded delirious and annoyed. "Yes?" he greeted curtly. "What is going on, Mr. President? It's always a pleasure to speak with you, but it is early."

"We don't have time to talk, Vladimir," the President barked. "About twenty minutes ago the United States came under attack by an unknown orbiting weapons satellite. Nine warheads are inbound, seven of them are on a course to detonate over major US cities, all of them major military sites, including Washington. In roughly-" he checked his watch -"five minutes my nation's capital will probably be destroyed. We don't know if these are nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons that were launched. I am escalating our military readiness to our next-highest alert level, which means our armed forces, including our strategic forces, are being made ready to wage war. I want you to tell me right now if these are your country's weapons attacking us."

The Russian President sounded exasperated. "Mr. President, I have no idea what you are talking about. We are not in a state of war to my knowledge and I am now-" he sounded like he was bring interrupted by somebody "-I am now being informed of your country's military being mobilized. I do not know the meaning of this and I am certainly inclined to respond in a similar manner, Mr. President."

Goldstein held up two fingers, indicating the number of minutes until one of the warheads reached DC airspace. She was scrambling between two phone calls, one of them via Skype on her laptop. Then the pilot announced over the cabin loudspeakers, "This is the captain to all on board parties: we are now forty miles away from Washington, heading southwest toward the vicinity of Baltimore. We should be well outside the blast range of the inbound weapon and we will be holding over Baltimore until further orders are issued by National Command Authority. Until it is deemed safe, we are currently closing all cabin windows in the event of a thermonuclear blast to shield you all from being blinded. Thank you for observing all safety procedures and please stay calm."

"Mr. President?" the Russian President prompted through his English translator, "I am waiting for an explanation for this madness."

"I don't have one at the moment, Vladimir, but I can assure you, we will bring the perpetrators of this attack to justice, one way or the other!" the President shouted and ended the call. He sucked in a breath and asked Goldstein, "Were you able to get through to the Vice President?"

She nodded her head. "He's en route to Raven Rock as we speak. Not the best place in the world for surviving a nuclear war, but it'll do for now. He'll be meeting the Speaker and the Secretary of Defense there shortly." She turned her laptop around and showed him something on the display. "Sir, this just came in from USSTRATCOM. General Reichs is on board the _Looking Glass_ plane and wanted to know why this protocol went into effect just now. He asked to find out if you authorized it."

The President squinted at the display impatiently. His mind was on his family in New Hampshire and he desperately wanted to call and let his wife and sons know he was okay. He blinked at the words on the screen in puzzlement: SKYNET INITIATIVE.

He shook his head. "I don't know. What is it?"

Goldstein said, "If I remember correctly, it was an automated strategic war planning program developed to implement and manage nuclear weapons deployment in the event that the top human decision makers, namely you and the Joint Chiefs, were incapacitated or killed. But the Skynet project was shut down in the mid-nineties when-"

The plane suddenly bucked and Goldstein's laptop went flying to the floor. The lights in the cabin flickered, then went out. Orange emergency bulbs flashed to life. The hum of the plane's engines suddenly ceased and the President felt a crawling sensation of weightlessness as the plane began to descend, rapidly losing altitude. "What's happening?" he demanded.

"Mr. President, stay calm! Don't try to leave your seat!" Goldstein gripped the arms of her seat and her body went doll-stiff. "It's probably the EMP, shutting down the electronics!"

"EMP?"

"Electromagnetic pulse! It's an energy burst generated by a high-altitude nuclear blast in the upper atmosphere that fries electronic equipment for miles. There were two warheads that were dropped high up to do that, one for the east coast, one for the west. It's meant to cripple our ability to respond to an inbound attack."

"Oh my God," the President exhaled heavily. "So we can't..."

Goldstein gasped as the plane began to shake violently. "That was the idea behind Skynet! It was an artificial intelligence system designed to respond if it was confirmed that the top leadership was taken out in a first strike! But it wasn't reliable and the world seemed to be getting safer in the last two decades and it was scrapped. But STRATCOM is saying it somehow came back online! I don't know-"

Another violent shudder rocked the plane as it continued its rapid, uncontrolled descent.

3

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Deckard was back at LAPD's Central Division, thankful that he was able to return to his jurisdiction. Like most cops he didn't like working with feds and he was especially glad to finally be rid of Danford. The federal marshal had disappeared almost as quickly as he appeared in Deckard's professional life, offering a firm handshake and thanking Deckard for his cooperation. Then the fed stepped into an elevator and that was that, leaving Deckard to his own devices. Deckard sent a quick report of the interrogation to Bryant, who was probably still suffering from the headache of the century and wouldn't be happy that the feds let Connor go.

He thought about Danford and his interest in finding out exactly who the man was gnawed at him. Connor's words still echoed in his subconsciousness: _He's not who he says he is._ He groused at the kid's apparent clairvoyance, mainly because it was exactly what Deckard was thinking about most of the day.

"Deck," his fellow detective Dave Holden greeted him as he navigated through the warren of desks that formed the Robbery-Homicide unit. Holden was pure baseball, jazz and apple pie WASP with a cherubic face and golden blond hair who wore expensive suits and Calvin Klein cologne. Deckard winced at the scent. "Got an update on the ZeiraCorp explosion," said Holden, handing Deckard a sheet of paper. "You've got to check this out."

Deckard scanned the data on the paper, puzzled. "What's this?" he asked.

"US Geological Survey emailed this to pretty much all local, state, and federal police departments. Some geologist working at an office near downtown noticed that his radiological equipment was going nuts. He tested a few air samples and found a lot of this radioactive element called tritium in the atmosphere. He went outside with a Geiger counter and found it was reading a lot of radiation in the direction of the Financial District, where the explosion occurred. Not a huge amount of it, but enough to set off radiation detectors all over the city."

Deckard's stomach plummeted. "You're saying this thing that went off today was a nuke?"

Holden nodded. "Or something close to it, like a dirty bomb. FEMA has guys down there right now in nuclear protection gear along with NEST, and they're closing off the area. Nobody's reported getting sick or anything, although they're still digging bodies out of rubble and treating the injured from the explosion. The guy from the Geological Survey said the levels are too low to be dangerous, but we won't know anything until FEMA's done their analysis. Bryant's been on the phone with the SAC of the FBI field office for the past half hour giving him your report of your talk with this Connor guy and-"

"The Baum file," Deckard interrupted him, "it mentioned a sale of Semtex to a San Diego dummy company and it set off alerts all over the country. No radioactive material?"

Holden checked on his Android phone. "Nope. Nothing like that. But Deck, three hundred pounds of Semtex wouldn't destroy a whole building like that! You'd need a lot of it, strategically placed around to do the kind of damage it did."

"Semtex? Are you kidding? I've seen it, Dave. You only need about a hundred pounds of it to demolish a building. It was Connor's truck. She used it and hid something on it, something powerful enough to blow a skyscraper up but small enough to escape a visual once-over." His next thought took only a second to form. "Dave, I need you to get somebody from the bomb squad with the right equipment and get down to Connor's place and sweep it for radioactive traces."

"Jeeze, Deck, I got a pile of paperwork on my desk to get to and I doubt anybody from the bomb squad's available with all these crank calls we've been getting."

"I'll do you a huge favor later, Dave. There's something else I need to check on right now."

Holden sighed. "All right, I'll see if Hernandez is available to go with me." He grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair and ran off. Deckard sat down at his desk and booted his computer. He logged into the LAPD's government database and ran a search for Brent Danford, USMS. The search ground away for a moment and produced the man's photo and profile. It showed nothing remarkable besides his age, vitals, years of service and marital status (single). He ran a search on Google for anything related to Danford and came up empty.

He sat staring for a moment before an idea formed. He copied Danford's photo and logged on Viewdle, a popular facial recognition search engine. He pasted the image into the search box and waited for results. He tried calling Iran in the meantime to let her know he'd be home later, but she didn't pick up. He grimaced. _Shit_. That was happening a lot lately.

In a couple of minutes a list of thumbnails and news links populated the screen. Most of the thumbnails showed people with similar faces, several of them celebrities, others with Facebook photos of ordinary people who looked somewhat like the fed's pasted image, and many more of anonymous men with similar hair, eyes and facial features. He grunted dejectedly and scrolled down the list, scanning the Danford lookalikes.

The thumbnails did their subjects little justice. The few he thought looked pretty close he spent a moment clicking their respective web links, reading whatever article was listed. One was a movie actor who was divorcing his European model wife, another was a convicted murderer executed in 2003, another told the story of a local small business own-

_WHAT THE FUCK__—_Deckard clicked on the link about the executed convict again, shaking the exhaustion that threatened to take hold. He focused on the image, looked deeply into the face of the man who was dressed in an orange prison jumpsuit, wrists and ankles in shackles, being led into the execution chamber for lethal injection. The photo was taken in 2003 and grainy. It showed the last few moments he had on earth and he looked curiously peaceful. The prisoner wasn't looking directly into the camera, but Deckard felt his pulse rocket, felt the tingling on the back of his neck.

The man's hair was shorter then, his frame was slightly smaller, and he wore a day's worth of stubble in 2003. But Deckard knew it was the same face. He was looking into the face of a man who had been put to death a decade ago for a double murder...

_(Dear almighty God, this can't be real, I can't be seeing this...)_

...the same face that looked with cold, dead eyes into Deckard's own, with a hand that shook his hand earlier in the day, shared a car ride all over the city with him, spoke in a chilling monotone and dressed to impress in an expensive suit with immaculately combed hair. Even the _teeth_ were perfect.

The detective's belly turned to ice when he read the condemned man's name: MARCUS WRIGHT.

Before Rick Deckard could properly form his thoughts into something resembling a course of action, the lights and all the equipment in the police administration building suddenly went dark.

4

_Looking Glass_ Airborne Command Post, August, 2014

"TACAMO VQ-3 is reporting contact with the USS _Georgia_, sir," the Air Force sergeant announced. "Sub is at launch readiness awaiting EAM authentication on VLF."

General Frank Reichs sat tensed in his seat on board the Boeing E-6B jet plane, codenamed _Looking Glass_. every muscle rigid, his hands trembling. He'd been battling a near-panic attack since the jet had taken off from Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha. Reichs had flown on the "Doomsday Plane" several times in his Air Force career but only during training exercises. He never dreamed that he would actually be on board it on Doomsday. "Very well, maintain contact," he said.

"Yes sir," the sergeant acknowledged. The Information Systems Team was tasked with relaying command and control procedures involving the deployment of nuclear weapons in the event of strategic battle conditions. Three TACAMO (Take-Charge-and-Move-Out) aircraft flying in strategically-assigned areas in the world provided quick communication with the US Navy's patrolling nuclear missile submarines operating in waters off the coasts of potentially-hostile nations such as Russia and China. With a sequenced grouping of orders by the President, properly authenticated, Reichs would give the order to TACAMO to put the subs on launch alert, and they would rise to launch depth and send their Trident ballistic missiles flying toward preprogrammed targets anywhere in the world.

Also awaiting orders to launch were over three hundred Peacekeeper/Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs) stirring in silos deep beneath the ground in North Dakota and Wyoming and three wings of B-2 strategic "stealth" bombers. The ICBMs were ready to launch and the B-2s were holding at fail-safe orbits in the northern Pacific and the Arctic Circle. They were all part of America's strategic triad, always ready to retaliate in the event of an attempted first strike by an enemy nation. War planning was augmented by OPLAN (Operation Plan) 8044, a computerized military option system that suggested targets and implemented overall weapons deployment.

In the words of a forgotten strategic military planner, America's ability to use nuclear weapons was "safely out of human hands." Reichs's role was to ride shotgun for the President and National Command Authority on board the _Nightwatch_ plane flying over the east coast. If the launch order was given by the President, Reichs would make sure the weapons were used. The rest was up to the machinery. His hope was that the machinery operated as designed.

He was not, however, expecting the machinery to throw him a curveball.

_"Sir, something new has come up,"_ one of the IST supervisors had announced a few minutes ago. _"OPLAN 8044 is running a new routine, one I haven't seen before."_ Reichs had gone over to the OPLAN station to investigate and looked at the new info being displayed: SKYNET INITIATIVE ONLINE.

"What in God's name...?" he'd muttered. Skynet was a decommissioned variant of SIOP (Single Integrated Operations Planning) , which was later replaced by OPLAN, but unlike the current operations planning programs, Skynet was a full-fledged artificial intelligence computer system designed to plan and wage nuclear war if the President and NCA were killed or rendered incommunicado. It was supposed to have been shut down during the Clinton Administration. It didn't look very shut down now.

"Sir," the IST supervisor said, "We've lost contact with _Nightwatch_. NCA is not responding on any frequency."

Reichs sucked in a long breath. That meant the President, the Secretary of Defense and Joint Chiefs were out of action, probably destroyed. But the communications silence with National Command Authority could have meant anything, and he waited, his heart hammering, his stomach twisting in knots.

New directives suddenly appeared on the screen: LAUNCH ORDER AUTHENTICATED. READY TO INITIATE...

Reichs swore loudly. They were still at DEFCON-2. The President still hadn't issued the authentication codes! Why was Skynet initiating launch sequence? "Override it!" he yelled. "NCA still hasn't issued orders!"

The IST supervisor, a pretty young lieutenant, typed madly on her computer keys, entering line after line of code to retake control of the program. "This Skynet directive is overriding OPLAN! All other directives are null! It's initiating launch sequence!"

LAUNCH CONFIRMED, the letters glowed red on the computer display.

"We couldn't stop it sir," the lieutenant said quietly, her face ghostly white. "It just acted completely on its own."

"All commands are reporting weapons launch, sir," Reichs's executive officer confirmed. "Strategic bombers were also issued the 'go' code and are on their way to their targets."

The general slumped in his seat, disbelieving what had just happened. _God forgive me for all this, if it was my fault,_ he prayed bitterly. _I can't believe the world is about to end, on my watch._

High above the plane, seven artificial meteors streaked across the sky toward their targets far below, like terrible angels descending to render judgment.

5

Los Angeles, August, 2014

John Connor desperately needed a drink.

He was riding on the Metro Rapid 720 bus to Cedars Sinai Medical Center when the blackout occurred. The first indication that the city's electricity was no longer flowing was the lack of illumination by the street lights. Then all other lights went out, including storefront fixtures and traffic signals. Traffic slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether within minutes as several fender-benders occurred and angry, surprised motorists exited their vehicles and gathered at the intersection, some cursing and shouting, others standing around, bewildered. The sun had disappeared beneath the Pacific's horizon and the sky was a dull purple dotted by faintly twinkling stars. Areas of the city not lit by the fading twilight were enveloped in darkness.

John wasn't particularly surprised by the power outage at first, considering the possible damage to the city's power grid from the explosion at ZeiraCorp earlier, but he found it odd when the bus's engine suddenly sputtered and died. He was further puzzled when he took out his iPhone to check the time and found it dead. He tried turning it back on but it wouldn't boot up. Then again, he decided, the battery was almost completely dead when he left the federal building. John sighed and put the phone back in his pocket. He really wanted a drink. Beer, wine, whiskey, _anything_.

The bus was packed with commuters and the encroaching feeling of claustrophobia was beginning to set in. The bus driver tried cranking the engine, to no avail. John sighed, pondering exiting the bus and jogging the rest of the way to the hospital. It was close enough. But the National Guard was imposing a curfew right about now and he didn't feel like getting detained and frisked again. The city was more or less under a semblance of law and order again but pockets of unrest still permeated in many areas.

"Mommy, my Sony game doesn't work anymore," a child sitting nearby complained. The little boy shook his small game console around, trying to bring it back to life. The other passengers began chattering and groans of frustration filled the bus.

"Damn phone just quit working," another grumbled.

"...can't get through to my daughter..."

"...what the hell, I charged it up earlier..."

"...damn Samsung, thing just went dead..."

An icy lead ball began to form in John's belly. All electronics were disabled. The bus's engine refused to turn over. He immediately thought of the starter solenoid and ignition box within the steering column and memories of how his mother taught him to hotwire a car came sparking into his mind and then they were pushed aside by stories of the future that his uncle Derek told him when he was still a teenager. Derek Reese—another Derek Reese, from another timeline—had traveled back in time using one of Skynet's captured Time Displacement Devices to help John and Sarah prepare for the coming nuclear war known as Judgment Day and cause as much damage to Skynet as they possibly could before its development peaked.

Uncle Derek had taught John other, safer ways to hotwire a vehicle while explaining that most of the electronic parts of machinery in the days following J-Day were shorted out by a phenomenon called EMP. Electromagnetic pulses were used by Skynet's warheads to destroy America's electrical infrastructure and hinder the human resistance movement's ability to fight back. The Resistance had painstakingly restored some electrical systems over time but the damage done by Skynet was nearly irreparable. Derek and his brother Kyle—another Kyle Reese, from another timeline, John reminded himself—taught themselves how to scavenge parts and jury-rig automotive components together to get vehicles and other machinery working again.

But their attempts to put together some form of mechanized force to fight the machines were often no match for the terrifying forces Skynet hurled at the humans: aerial Hunter-Killer drones armed with plasma cannons, armored behemoths called Ogres, massive Harvester robots, and Skynet's most fearsome creations, the infiltration nightmares called Terminators.

The tension on the bus was rising to a crescendo. Several people were trying to exit, only to be stopped by the driver, who told them that a curfew was in effect and being out on the streets was dangerous. One of the men attempting to leave pulled a gun from the waistband of his pants and shoved it in the driver's face. A few words were exchanged in Spanish and the driver relented, muttering _"Mierda loco,"_ as the gunman exited.

"I think that guy's right," grumbled somebody sitting behind John, "Let's get out and start walking. Nobody's gonna shoot unarmed people."

Nearly everyone on the bus grunted in agreement. Soon the bus was emptying, despite the driver's protests. John sighed and followed. There may have been a curfew, but he could think of better things to do than sit on a pitch-black bus in the middle of a darkened street in LA. _"Buena suerte,"_ he said to the driver as he exited. He followed the crowd for a few moments, listening to the gossip and festering rumors that drifted among the group before breaking off and heading east down Wilshire Boulevard on his own.

John could hear unrest erupting again, heard rapid gunshots in the distance, between North Beverly and Doherry Drives. LA was on any given day a relatively peaceful city with the societal problems every huge city has, but the blackout was aggravating something that the ZeiraCorp explosion had started earlier. There were almost no lights shining in the city's skyline aside from a few pinpricks of what he guessed were emergency lights. He saw small orange glows and knew that fires continued to burn. He knew that the street gangs and other lawless groups would be prowling the streets as the night wore on. The National Guard was out, too, and sooner or later he'd run into a checkpoint. He'd have to come up with a damn good story for being out on the streets at this hour.

John instinctively took off in a jog. He wished he had a gun. Or Cameron running by his side.

6

Air Force One, August, 2014

The cabin lights suddenly came back on and the engines roared to life again. The occupants of Air Force One collectively breathed a long sigh of relief as the plane seemed to stabilize. The flight crew, physically and mentally exhausted by the ordeal of trying to bring the plane to a stable flight again, slumped in their seats, gasping. The captain, irritated by the anti-flash goggles he was forced to wear in case of being blinded by a nuclear flash, announced, "This is the captain. We have engaged the emergency backup system and are gaining altitude again. Please remain seated with your belts on. Flight attendants and doctors will be making their rounds to make sure everyone is all right and hopefully no injuries. We will update you as soon as we reach twenty-thousand feet again."

The President whistled. "I knew I was in for a ride when I applied for this job, but I didn't know how much fun it would be," he said sarcastically. Several Secret Service men snickered behind him. Goldstein, her blond hair completely disheveled, could barely catch her breath. She took a chance, unbuckled her seatbelt and scooped up her laptop. It was dead, its electronics fried by the EMP burst.

"Mr. President," the voice of the Joint Chiefs chairman announced over the cabin's loudspeakers, "ground observers are reporting an airburst over Washington. NORAD confirmed the strike one minute ago. The blast was estimated to be equivalent to roughly a hundred kilotons and it struck close to the Capitol. Fires are being reported all over DC. Andrews is scrambling all its fighter planes and support aircraft and evacuation procedures are continuing."

Another radio voice immediately followed: "This is General Robert Brewster at NORAD Space Command at Cheyenne Operations Center. We are now reporting strikes at Tampa's McDill Air Force Base, Naval Station Norfolk, Naval Base San Diego, Whiteman Air Force Base in Kansas City, Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha, and Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado Springs. All personnel that were able to be evacuated have been moved from the strike zones. Cheyenne Mountain itself has sustained minimal damage and we are all fine here for now. We will continue to issue reports every five minutes of any further enemy activity so please keep this channel open. Thank you."

_Two million people,_ the President thought, _who in the hell are we fighting against? I can't strike back at an enemy we know nothing about..._

"Mr. President!" his chief of staff urgently called to him from several seats back, "I have an urgent phone call from General Reichs and he needs to speak with you now!" He rushed to the President with the phone and handed it to him.

The Commander-in-Chief sighed and greeted, "This is the President."

"Mr. President, this is General Reichs. You need to know this right now. One minute ago we were still at DEFCON-2 awaiting your orders for weapons release. The missiles at Warren and Minot bases were fueled and primed and the crews were holding. We had six ballistic subs out on patrol with TACAMO planes in the air to relay launch orders if issued. Three wings of B-2 bombers were in the air waiting for orders to proceed past the fail-safe points over the Pacific and Arctic. Then it...happened."

"What?" the President demanded.

"Sir, you won't believe this. We have weapons launch."

"What...what do you mean _launch?_"

Reichs sounded like he was hyperventilating. "I mean...everything that was waiting for launch orders _just went ahead and launched. _The ICBMs are flying out of their silos. The subs launched their missiles. The stealth bombers are on their way to attack their targets. We were awaiting nuclear release authentication from you and I got an alert saying all nuclear release codes were authenticated and the launch order was given. The missiles from Warren and Minot will reach their targets in Russia in a little less than thirty minutes. The sub launches will hit in about twenty minutes. The bombers will take three hours to hit their targets."

The President felt a dull ache begin in his lower arm. His hand shook. "General, are you saying that the United States of America has started a nuclear war?"

Reichs sighed. "Yes sir. The target packages were missile and strategic aircraft sites in Russia and China, and a few in North Korea. Moscow, Beijing, and Pyongyang were also targeted. Skynet took control of OPLAN and launched on its own. That program wasn't supposed to run, Mr. President. None of this was supposed to happen without your command authority." Reichs paused, then added, "I'm sorry, Mr. President. The system somehow failed and I assume full responsibility."

"I'm the Commander-in-Chief," the President said quietly. He felt a curious discomfort in his chest, like something pressing in on it. "I take responsibility." He felt his hand drop the phone and winced as crushing pain took hold of his torso. He convulsed in his seat and clutched his chest. "Oh Jesus," he wheezed.

_"Get the doctor with the crash cart in here right now!"_ the White House chief of staff screamed. "We have a medical emergency!" He pushed Goldstein aside, who had rushed to the President's side, trying to unbutton his shirt. The chief of staff ripped the President's shirt open and unbuckled his seatbelt. The President's breathing was labored, his inhalation sounding like air sucking through a straw. The doctor and his medical team wheeled the crash cart into the conference room, where they lay the President on his back and powered up the defibrillator. The doctor probed against the President's jawline for a carotid pulse and found none. He immediately opened the President's mouth for artificial resuscitation while another began chest compressions to restart the heart. The defibrillator was charged and the technician applied the pads to the President's bare chest. He shouted "Clear!" and applied the shock. The President's torso leaped from the floor and he suddenly sucked in an agonizing breath. The doctor checked his pulse and nodded.

"Heartbeat, but we have to get him to a hospital," he announced, panting.

"That may not happen for a little while," Goldstein said in a low voice.

The voice of General Brewster suddenly crackled. "Mr. President, this is NORAD. We have detected a counterforce response by Russian and Chinese ballistic missile forces. Too early for an accurate count, but we estimate that over three hundred missiles are inbound to strike targets in the United States now."

7

Los Angeles, August, 2014

James Ellison awoke in pure darkness. Almost at once the panic receptors in his brain churned out warning messages and the impulse to thrash around was nearly overpowering. He took in deep breaths and managed to calm himself to form coherent thoughts. The Where-am-I thought thread shifted to Why-are-the-lights-out before he came to his senses and decided the best way to find out was to simply call out to anyone listening.

"Hello?" he shouted. "Anybody here? Nurse?"

He was answered by silence. He could hear people yelling in the corridor outside his hospital room, heard shoes pounding on the floor. Through the small window of the door he could see a small light flickering in the hallway, saw beams skittering this way and that. Flashlights, he guessed. The power must have gone out, but James thought that all hospitals had emergency backup generators for such events.

Suddenly his door opened and the bright beam of a flashlight shined on his face, nearly blinding him. It was being held by a silhouette of a large man, followed by a shorter, stockier figure who appeared to be holding a smaller figure by the hand.

"Mr. Ellison?" greeted the shorter person, whose voice James recognized as Nurse Sandra's.

"Yes?" he answered.

"You won't believe who I found," the nurse's voice seemed to smile.

"Dad?" cried the smaller figure.

James Ellison's heart and faith were instantly rebuilt when he heard Savannah's voice, and his soul was restored by her hug when she jumped forward and landed in his outstretched arms. They held each other for dear life, sobbing uncontrollably. Tears streamed down Sandra's cheeks and her smile strained her face. "Let's give them a minute," she said to the tall orderly who escorted her and the girl, and they left the room momentarily.

"Oh, thank you, Lord," James sobbed. "Thank you for bringing my girl back."

Savannah disengaged herself from his iron grip and said, "John saved me. I don't know how, but he did. I was sleeping in the rec room and I tried to get up but the smoke was too much-"

"Ssshhh," he whispered, holding her to his chest again. "You're safe now. Where's John?"

"I don't know. He left me on the ambulance and before they took me here I saw him talking to two men. That was the last time I saw him."

James nodded. "He's probably okay, then, honey. Don't worry, we'll be together again soon." He didn't care that it was dark. He didn't care that it sounded like all hell was breaking loose in the hospital. It didn't matter that he'd lost a limb and the pain was still grinding away at him. All that mattered was that he and his daughter were together again.

He prayed to God for John Connor's safety. He now owed everything to that man for saving his precious girl.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Reunion

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

Somebody screamed when the lights in the police administration building went out. Deckard wasn't sure who it was but he impulsively smiled at the absurdity of the sound. He sat in darkness for a moment, wondering what his next move was going to be when small emergency lights suddenly lit the floor with a dim glow. Cops and office workers who were still occupying the floor stumbled around, disoriented.

The woman who screamed earlier shrieked again and Deckard heard a heavy thump on the floor, followed by the sound of whimpering. He guessed she tripped over something and grinned again despite the seriousness of the situation. He tried rebooting his computer but the machine's display remained dead. Frowning, the detective carefully walked over to Captain Bryant's office door. The police captain opened it as soon as Deckard put his hand on the door handle. He held a lit Zippo lighter in his calloused hand.

"Well, Deck," Bryant said, "I sure hope you grew a pair of cat eyes, because you're going to need them. I want you to find this Connor kid and tail him. Mommy might be calling soon to make contact with him, by your report. I don't know why the fuck the fed let him walk, but maybe it'll work in our favor. I don't want them to interfere, though, so we need to move."

"I know where he's going," Deckard said. "He told me he's going to Cedars Sinai Medical to visit friends. Place'll be a madhouse, but he seemed determined to go there tonight."

"You're the man, Deck," Bryant beamed. "Where's Holden?"

"Sent him to check out Connor's place with an EOD guy to see if he had any bomb materials stashed away," Deckard partially lied. He wasn't sure if Bryant knew that the ZeiraCorp bomb may have been a small nuke and he wanted to tread cautiously. Bryant tended to be a hypochondriac and the thought of being exposed to radiation wouldn't make the squad's night go smoothly.

"Good move. At least we might know if the kid was working with his mom. I still think he had a hand in it. She couldn't have been able to sneak the truck out of the parking garage without being noticed." Bryant scratched the top of his sunburned, balding head. "Hope the power comes back on soon. Can't believe it affected everything."

Deckard said nothing. He was still numbed by the possibility that he had been working earlier in the day with a zombie or a vampire. He didn't know how the hell else to explain how an executed murderer could have come back from the dead, much less get a job as a US marshal. He didn't think Bryant needed to know that at the moment, either, and he forced himself to shut up. He pulled a Marlboro out of his pack, lit it with Bryant's Zippo and muttered, "Thanks."

Bryant sputtered and yelled "No smoking in here, Deck!" as the detective slipped away, trailing smoke.

Deckard took the fire stairs to the parking garage. He could hear engines attempting to start, some coughing several times before dying, heard men swearing, some kicking their vehicle's tires in frustration. None of it sounded encouraging. He got to his car and tried the engine. It wouldn't turn over. A viscous uneasiness rumbled in his gut.

"What the fuck, man," a cop he recognized as Officer Yardley shouted nearby. Yardley stood in front of his squad car staring at the open hood. "Car's shot, cell phone's shot, radio's shot. What the fuck-"

"Something's going on," Deckard grumbled as he exited his car. "Nothing works anymore?"

"It can't be just the electric," Yardley grumbled. "I heard the entire city's in a blackout, and somebody else said they heard all of southern Cali is out. But it's _everything. _ Vehicles, electronics, radios, phones...you name it, if it operates off a battery, it's dead."

"Weird," Deckard said. His mind and body were fried, and he wanted nothing more than to lay back in his sofa at home with a bottle of Sam Adams when the sound of a truck engine turning over caught his complete attention. He walked over to the sound of the engine revving to find it was one of the older police vans that had been sitting nearly forgotten in a corner of the garage.

"Hey, this one still works," the cop behind the wheel yelled gleefully.

"How old is that one, Nelson?" Yardley asked the driver.

Deckard said, "This van's about thirty years old. I can't believe the department held onto it all this time." He thought for a few seconds. "Older electronics. Somehow it wasn't affected by whatever's going on."

"We have room for about six people," Nelson said. "Anybody need a ride anywhere?"

"I do," Deckard said. "To Cedars Sinai."

2

"HALT!" the voice on the loudspeaker barked. "Who goes there?"

_Shit,_ John Connor thought. He'd stumbled onto somebody's picket line after jogging two miles up Wilshire Boulevard and knew that weapons were pointed at him. _No point in running, I guess._ He was at the intersection of Wilshire and Trenton Drive and realized that the area formed a perfect kill zone if an enemy force flanked it. If it hadn't been one of the more posh areas of Los Angeles with tall palm trees and art deco architecture he wouldn't have found the situation almost hilarious.

In the near-darkness he saw three humanoid shapes approaching, their mounted rifle lights obscuring most of their features. As they got closer he could make out their familiar digital-pattern combat uniforms and helmets, saw their hexagonal California ACU patches on their arms, identifying them as National Guard troops. He stopped moving but his muscles remained tensed.

"I'm trying to get to the hospital!" John shouted. "I have an ID if you want to check it!"

"Turn around and get on your knees!" the guardsman on the bullhorn barked. John obeyed and as he knelt he heard the boots pounding up behind him. He was thrown headlong to the ground, smacking his cheek on the asphalt. "God damn!" he yelled while the guardsmen pinned him down and searched his pockets. "I'm not a gang member or anything!"

"Shut up!" the man with the bullhorn blared, almost in his ear. "Speak only when spoken to!" John felt his wallet get yanked from his pant pocket and felt several cards fall on his back as the second guardsman whipped it open. "John Kyle Connor," the guardsman recited from his driver's license. The man's accent made him out to be of Latino origins. The guardsmen pulled John up from the ground and the cold muzzle of an M4 carbine was shoved against his jawline. "What are you doing out alone on the streets, Mr. Connor?" the Latino guardsman asked, closing his wallet.

"I have family at CS Medical," John replied. "They were hurt in the explosion today and I'm checking on them. I was on a bus coming up this way and it broke down."

"Ain't the only thing broke down," the third man said dryly. "Hardly anything works. Night vision goggles are shot. The only way we saw you coming down the road is because of that white T-shirt you're wearing...which, by the way, looks like it's seen better days."

"Shut up, Mason," the Latino growled. John glanced at the man's name patch: RUIZ. The three chevrons on his arm identified him as a sergeant. John noticed the tribal tattoo that peeked from beneath the end of his left sleeve to the top of his neck. "This road is blocked off, Mr. Connor," Sergeant Ruiz said, drawing the carbine's barrel away. "I suggest you turn around and walk back the way you came. We're not letting anybody proceed because of the situation downtown." He handed the wallet back to John.

John laughed. "This isn't downtown, this is Beverly Hills," he said. "It's quieter here than downtown. The hospital is a couple of blocks up. Come on guys, you know I'm not a threat."

Ruiz hefted the carbine menacingly. "You got a mouth on you, pal, so I'm going to make it real clear to you real fast. You make yourself scarce now and I'll let you _walk_ away. Sound like a deal?"

John stared into Ruiz's dark eyes, glanced at the other two guardsmen, and the realization came quickly. _Not federalized elements, at least not these guys. _John held his hands up in mock conciliation and said, "A little human compassion, huh?"

Ruiz gestured with the carbine. "Get going."

John did. He turned around and walked back the way he came, whistling. The three guardsmen watched him with their rifle lights aimed at his back as he receded into the darkness. Mason almost felt the temptation to simply shoot the arrogant motherfucker in the back. He almost begged the dude to try something stupid so he could do just that. All three of them were tense enough being out of radio contact with their main unit to start making target practice out of anything that moved.

John waited until he was sure he was out of sight and ducked behind an abandoned car parked on the side of the road. Having grown up with Sarah in Central America as a child, often in poor, secluded villages or in jungle encampments, his senses were calibrated to work in dusky environments, especially his night vision. He watched for any movement up the road for a few moments before sneaking up North Whittier Drive, staying low and sticking near shrubbery, pausing every so often to listen for noise.

He stealthily made his way to the other end of the street and saw another National Guard picket, this one made up of five men, and he grimaced. He guessed that the main checkpoint was up further, probably on Santa Monica Boulevard, between him and the hospital, manned by more troops, and he wasn't convinced that all electronic equipment was trashed by EMP. He thought about snipers poised on rooftops and even without night scopes all they'd have to do was start shooting and draw the rest of them to him.

Even if he sneaked between the homes he'd inevitably be spotted. People in Beverly Hills were up and about. In the pitch darkness John could hear voices and movement within the multimillion dollar homes looming on either side of the street, saw the flickering light of candles in the windows, heard dogs barking nearby, and silently cursed. He couldn't hide all night and he needed to get past the neighborhood to the hospital but the dogs would give him away. He needed to become invisible. As he thought about that, an idea formed and a tiny smile came to his lips.

3

The power in Cedars Sinai suddenly came back on and the vitals monitor beeped to life, waking James Ellison. Savannah lay sleeping next to him on the bed, lightly snoring, which made him smile. James brushed a few strands of red hair from her face and leaned down to kiss her forehead. She stirred and opened her eyes. Her breathing had improved and she looked very nearly the picture of health she'd been before today.

"Get enough sleep, sweetheart?" he asked.

Savannah yawned, nodded, looked around. "Power's back on?"

"Looks like it. Hope it stays on this time."

"Me too." Savannah cuddled closer to her adoptive father. She felt his steady heartbeat beneath his gown and the sensation comforted her. Then she looked down at his lower body, her eyes tracing the mound beneath the bed sheets, where his left leg was cushioned. She saw something amiss.

"Your leg...John told me you got hurt..."

James nodded. "I got badly hurt, honey, but it's gonna be okay."

"What happened?"

He sighed. "It's okay, sweetheart...had an accident..."

_"What happened?"_

James closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot trying to conceal the obvious. "I lost my left foot when John and I were climbing up the elevator shaft, honey. It hurts, but it's gonna be-"

Savannah's blue eyes widened to spheres of horror. "Oh my God!" she shrieked. She began pulling the covers down to look. "Dad, what were you—how did-"

He gripped the covers, stopping her. "No, Savannah! It's alright...I'll be okay! Honey..." he gripped her hands and pulled her to his chest, holding her in a quivering hug. "Honey, don't worry about a thing. We'll make it through this, I promise. Savannah, honey..." he cupped his daughter's face in loving hands. "Savannah, I'd gladly lose an arm or a leg than to be without you."

Savannah sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve. "I know you'll be okay! It's just...it just sucks knowing that you're hurt like this."

James hugged her tightly and said, "Oh, honey, it's just a foot. Could've been worse, but I thank God John was there to save the rest of me. Anyway, I know what I can always be for Halloween."

"What's that?"

He contorted his face to a mock scowl and gave his best pirate impression. "Aaarrghh, matey! I'll wear an eye patch with a parrot on my shoulder and pound the deck with my peg leg until this thar deck is swabbed and the sails raised to this thar wind!"

Savannah giggled in spite of herself and hugged her adoptive father tightly. They lay together on the bed for a while holding each other until Savannah pulled away and sat up straight. He saw questions in her eyes and felt an uneasiness brewing.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"What happened to my mother?"

James's pulse quickened. He wasn't expecting that question, not yet. Certainly not now. He always intended for her to know where her mother went, but he never knew the whole truth of Catherine Weaver's fate until John told him his story down in the sub-basement, in the exact spot where he and Catherine jumped into that nightmare future. James knew the truth would break his daughter's young heart, but he felt that terrible responsibility as a parent not to withhold it. For three years, he felt she was never ready to know.

For three years Savannah was told that her mother had left on a business trip and had mysteriously disappeared. Given the circumstances under which she'd met John and Sarah Connor, that half-truth had served its purpose well. For three years James Ellison had promised Savannah that he was always searching for Catherine, sparing no expense to locate her, to find some trace of her to bring closure to the void he knew was festering in his daughter's soul..

He'd lied, of course, and his own soul was tormented every day with that knowledge.

_Not anymore, by God, it ends tonight._

"Savannah," he said, sighing, feeling the dropping ache in his chest as he began, "Your mother never wanted you to know what happened down in the basement with John Henry that day she left you. I lied to cover for her because she loved you so much and knew you would never completely understand what happened. In a way I blame myself for all the things that happened because I was right in the middle of all that went on here and got myself so deep I couldn't get out. But, honey," he pulled her up to directly face him, and he looked her in the eye. "No more lies. I want you to know right now that she didn't leave you because she didn't love you. She left you...us...because she loved you more than anything else in this world and what she did...where she went...was because she wanted you to have a future without fear, without having to run or hide...she wanted you to grow up to be able to breathe freely without the shadow of death always hanging over you. She went away to try to save John Henry because he was...someone very important, very special, who would become even more important in the future."

Savannah's eyes sparkled with moisture. She took in a deep breath and asked, "Was it because she thought John Henry was more important than me?"

James's heart nearly broke when she asked him that. A memory of his last conversation with Catherine flickered:

_...what I believe you're beginning to understand, _Catherine had explained to him in one of her rare moments of cordiality, _is that when my behavior implies that I value John Henry's survival more than that of my own daughter, is not because I love John Henry more than Savannah. It's because I believe Savannah's survival may someday depend upon John Henry's survival. And because I believe that your survival may someday depend upon John Henry's survival..._

"No, sweetheart, no! She didn't think that. She certainly loved him, in her own strange way, like another child. And John Henry certainly was a child. He had a childlike mind, despite being as smart as he was, and your mother devoted a lot of herself to make him more grown up. But Savannah," James held her tightly as he spoke, "you were her first love. And she loved you so much that she was willing to give her life to make sure you have a future...that we all have a future. Your mom-"

"She wasn't real."

James blinked. "What?"

Savannah began to cry. "She wasn't really my mother. She wasn't even...real, like you and me. She was a robot."

James felt the air compress in his lungs, unable to draw in a breath. How did she know that? He never once let that terrible secret slip, was certain none of ZeiraCorp's employees knew Catherine Weaver's true nature, other than him and John and possibly Matt Murch. "Savannah...what makes you think-"

"I'm not dumb, okay?" she said between sobs. "Give me some credit, Dad! I figured it out little by little the more we were together before she left." She pulled away from him. "I noticed...little things about her. The things that most people would probably let by without really thinking about them. The way she never seemed to clean herself up before going to work. She always appeared clean...too clean, always perfect. I never once saw her even dress or make herself up, ever. Not since the airplane accident that killed my real dad. She never even used the bathroom! I never saw her eat or drink. It was always weird, I began to get creeped out by her." Savannah wiped her eyes and coughed. "But the thing that always gave her away was the way she looked at you. Her eyes didn't look alive, Dad. They looked so...dead. Even when she rocked me to sleep or read me stories and kissed and hugged me and told me she loved me her eyes _never changed_. And she was so _cold_, when she held me against her I never felt her warmth, like she was before the accident. That's when I decided she wasn't my mother...that she was dead and got replaced by...something. I don't know what, but what I do know, Dad is that my mother wasn't my real mother." Savannah couldn't go on. She buried her face in the bed sheets.

James closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. In a way he felt relieved. What truth he had yet to painfully reveal to Savannah was taken out of his hands. She had made a tremendous leap in logic far beyond what her mind may have normally allowed to accept. Savannah's intuition held him in awe. He wanted to tell her when she was older, but he silently reproached himself for underestimating Savannah, not recognizing her gift of second sight.

"Savannah," he said softly, reaching for her head. She abruptly lifted her head up to face him. He saw resentment in her eyes.

"Tell me what she was," she demanded.

James sighed. "Savannah, I don't think you'd understand-"

_"Tell me!"_ she shrieked. "I have that right, Dad!"

"Catherine Weaver died in that plane crash with your father, Lachlan Weaver," James heard himself say, only partially aware of his lips moving. The words came almost mechanically. "Your mother was duplicated by a machine called a Terminator, and it was an advanced T-1001 model from the future. It's a liquid-metal prototype designed by a computer intelligence called Skynet. The T-1001 can change its shape to imitate other people or objects. Skynet made it to infiltrate human society and hunt down people it saw as a threat to its existence and kill them."

He looked at his adopted daughter intently, keeping a face as solid as granite. He expected her to look at him in disbelief. She surprised him by saying, "It imitated my mother very well. Even you were fooled."

James let out a small laugh, shook his head sadly. "Yeah, she did, for a long time, even though I saw some of the same hints you saw, over time. Then I saw what she was capable of doing and I knew. I was like Thomas the Disciple, doubting the truth until I saw it with my own eyes."

"But...why did she come back in time...take my mother's appearance...build John Henry? I don't get it. What was she doing here?"

James sighed, shrugged. "I don't know all the answers honey. What I do know is that she was determined to stop Skynet from going active and try to wipe the human race out. Whatever she lacked in empathy with human beings she more than made up for in her single-minded effort to try to save us, especially you."

Savannah shook her head and looked away, lost in thought. "Did John know about her-it?"

James nodded. "If anybody knows anything about Catherine Weaver, or the machine that called itself Catherine Weaver, it's John Connor. He followed her into the future to try to save somebody else he may have loved, and he found out what Catherine and John Henry were up to. If you want to know everything, honey, he's the one to talk to."

Savannah stared at him, her face immobile, but her eyes were alive with contemplation. James was about to say something else when the door to his room suddenly opened. Nurse Sandra walked in with a replacement bag for his IV and smiled when she saw Savannah and James together. "Look who's awake!" she chirped. Savannah wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled back. Following behind Sandra was a frail-looking dark haired woman who looked vaguely familiar to James and a dignified, almost regal older man dressed sharply in an expensive-looking gray suit. The woman was dressed in black dress slacks and blouse and walked with a cane. She moved with difficulty, and James knew she was in pain. Her dark hair was thinning and her flesh pulled itself tightly over the bones of her face, giving it the appearance of a skull. She wore horn-rimmed glasses, as did the older gentleman. Veins traced every meridian of the woman's face and arms. Savannah looked away, aghast.

"Hello, Mr. Ellison," the ghostly woman greeted in a raspy voice. She clicked forward with her cane. "You may remember me. I'm Dr. Serena Kogan. We met in San Francisco at the Human Genome Convention in 2010. I headed Cyberdyne Systems' Genetics Division in 2003 before we were purchased by the Kaliba Consortium and loaned to DARPA. I had hoped to meet with you today before the explosion at ZeiraCorp."

James stared for a few seconds, remembering a healthier-looking woman with austere features and a fiery will that belied her small stature. Dr. Kogan was there to give a lecture on genetic redesigns of organic life systems and biomechanical engineering, and her ideas, while radical for scientific convention, were nonetheless brilliant. He nodded and said, "Yes, I remember, Dr. Kogan. It's a pleasure meeting you again, although I wish the circumstances were better."

Dr. Kogan nodded slowly. She clicked her cane and, taking a hint, Sandra pulled a chair from the corner of the room and brought it to Dr. Kogan to sit in. The well-dressed man smiled and gently shook his head when Sandra offered the other chair, declining to sit. "Can I get anything for anybody here?" Sandra asked. "I don't know how much longer the power will be back on, but I can get food or drinks. James, I know you haven't eaten much today..."

James said, "No, I'm fine for now. Savannah, you want anything?"

Savannah nodded her head. "Soda, please? Coke."

Sandra nodded. The other visitors declined. She darted out of the room, shutting the door. When the nurse's footsteps receded Dr. Kogan addressed James. "Mr. Ellison, I am dying and do not have much longer to live," she announced in a painful rasp. "I was stricken with a rare form of intestinal cancer that I had attempted to cure with a new treatment I developed some years ago. Before I turned my devotion to genetic engineering I was a physician, and my interest in saving the terminally ill was my primary motivation to study the life systems of cellular growth and the possibility of regeneration of healthy tissues. Before I continue, I would like to take a moment to thank you for the quality of your company's employees, in particular Mr. Cohen and Mr. Neilson for saving my life when the building caught fire. I was waiting in Mr. Cohen's office while Mr. Neilson searched for you. I was attempting to make my way downstairs when the smoke overwhelmed me. They carried me out of the building to paramedics."

James Ellison frowned. He wasn't aware of a meeting being arranged between him, Cohen, Neilson and Dr. Kogan. _Have to look into that later,_ he thought. He didn't like surprises, especially ones involving employees of Kaliba. They were a shadowy organization, and he knew John and Sarah Connor had attempted to shut them down before Kaliba's acquisition by the Defense Department. Sarah Connor was convinced they were developing the coding architecture for Skynet, and she likewise suspected Catherine was before she disappeared.

"I'm very pleased that my chief legal counsel and number-two man reached down deep and found their humanity," he joked. Dr. Kogan's taciturn facade remained in place, and James's smile faded. Savannah gave him a derisive look and rolled her eyes.

"I attempted to reach out to you Mr. Ellison, because I believe there may be a mutually beneficial partnership that could be established between Cyberdyne-Kaliba and ZeiraCorp, with the best interests of humanity at heart. The gentleman standing behind me represents another party which may best be able to implement the fruits of our possible partnership. He is also the one who will carry on my work after I am gone."

The well-dressed gentleman walked toward James and offered a handshake. "Mr. Ellison, it is truly an honor to meet you," he greeted in an articulate, cultured voice. "I am Dr. Eldon Tyrell."

James shook Dr. Tyrell's bony hand, noting the firm grip. "I don't believe I've heard of your work, sir," he said. "What is your field?"

Dr. Tyrell's eyes seemed to twinkle. "My field, Mr. Ellison?" His smile broadened. "Call it a devotion to a dream...a dream I've had since I was first able to form thoughts in my mind. It's a common dream that all human beings have, and it's within reach. I believe you are the man who may be able to help us grasp that dream, Mr. Ellison."

James raised his eyebrows. "What dream is that, Dr. Tyrell?"

Dr. Tyrell said, "Immortality."

"Immortality," James reiterated. Savannah looked at Dr. Tyrell quizzically.

Dr. Tyrell chuckled and said, "Specifically, the science of perpetual cellular regeneration, or _replication,_ as Dr. Kogan and I refer to it. Completely rebuilding damaged tissue structures after the pattern of the organism's DNA code. Even modify the body in ways to adapt to extreme situations that would normally cause a cessation of life." Dr. Tyrell paused, seemingly for dramatic effect. "Our other interest is with constructing artificial lifeforms completely from scratch, which is also within reach. Think of it, Mr. Ellison, a personal assistant who never sleeps or a family pet completely devoted to you, and never dies. Think of the possibilities, the genetically-engineered marvels we're close to perfecting." He nodded toward James's shorter left leg beneath the covers. "I was told you suffered a dreadful accident today. I'm truly sorry. I can't imagine the torment you must be feeling to have lost a part of yourself."

James shrugged and took hold of Savannah's hand. "I may have lost a limb, Dr. Tyrell, but I gained something back that is more important." Savannah smiled and drew closer to him.

A strange glint sparked in Dr. Tyrell's eyes. "Would you like to have your foot back, Mr. Ellison?"

James shook his head. "Excuse me?"

Dr. Tyrell slowly approached the bed and sat on the edge. "I'm making a simple proposal, Mr. Ellison. We can replicate your severed foot. Bone, blood vessels, nerves, sinew, muscle, flesh...everything. It will be your very own bone and tissues, without fear of rejection. We can do it. We are willing to do it. Do you want it?"

James saw the look in the man's eyes and hesitated to answer. He knew all about deals with the devil. He wasn't sure Dr. Tyrell was the devil, but when a devil of a deal is offered, one steps cautiously into the minefield.

"What's the catch, Dr. Tyrell? You called it a proposal. I'm sure there's a _quid pro quo_ involved."

Dr. Tyrell chuckled, almost sarcastically. He looked at Dr. Kogan, seated patiently, her eyes lucid and fixed on James's. He turned back to James. "The procedure will cost you absolutely nothing, Mr. Ellison. You do, however, have something we want...something special that we need. Something that I'm sure holds absolutely no personal value to you at all."

James furrowed his brow. "What would that be?"

Dr. Tyrell smiled, leaned forward and whispered softly into his ear. As the scientist whispered, James Ellison's eyes widened.

4

Sergeant Ruiz, PFC Mason and Specialist Gundersen finished a sweep of their patrol area and were about to march back east of Trenton Drive when the growing cacophony of dogs barking in the neighborhood on Whittier drew their attention. The noise, while bothersome, was also definitely not one that was welcomed. The dogs in the distance didn't sound frightened. They sounded angry.

"Jesus," Mason said. "Sounds like Dogtown lost its shit."

Gundersen lifted the bullhorn to his mouth, thumbed the mic and roared, "Hey, shut those dogs up!"

"God _damn_ it, you asshole!" Ruiz shouted. He ripped the bullhorn out of the specialist's hand and smashed it on the ground. "We're trying to stay quiet here, and you're waking the fucking neighborhood!"

"Hey, guys," Mason announced. He squinted into the darkness of Whittier Drive. Something moved, and the sound of dogs barking grew louder by the second. "Something's coming our way."

"What is it?" Ruiz squinted. He drew his carbine up. "Can't see shit."

Mason pointed. "There!"

The three National Guardsmen stared in disbelief at the scene unfolding before them. Their stupefied faces took on a comical expression as their jaws dropped.

The man they had encountered earlier, Connor, was racing toward them like the devil himself was hot on his heels.

Stark naked.

The three soldiers continued to stare as Connor ran. Clutched in one hand were what looked like his shirt and pants. The other hand held his shoes. Following close behind him were five or six dogs, all different breeds, all of them large and well-muscled and their teeth bared. Connor yelled, "Catch!" and flung his clothes and shoes at the guardsmen. All three caught the articles of clothing by instinct as Connor ran past them. They didn't have time to ponder what was going on but the terrifying realization hit them a nanosecond later.

Connor was quickly forgotten as Ruiz, Mason and Gundersen looked in horror as the dogs quickly snapped their attention from the naked man to them. The lead dog in the growling pack, a rottweiler, slammed into the sergeant with all its momentum, knocking the large man down. Ruiz screamed as the dog tore at him, snapping at Connor's tattered shirt that he still held, shredding it like tissue. Ruiz let go of the shirt and instinctively swung his carbine, hitting the side of the dog's head, which brought a yelp from the animal but also sealed his fate. The rottweiler renewed its attack on the sergeant, ripping the sleeves of his uniform, sinking its teeth into his arm. He howled like a wounded dog, dropped his carbine, tucked himself into a ball, completely forgetting his one-weekend-per-month combat training.

The other two fared no better. Within seconds the other dogs, a German shepherd, a doberman, a husky, and two mastiffs were all over them, tearing at clothing and flesh like sharks in a feeding frenzy. Mason managed to get away by stripping his uniform and helmet off, running away screaming in his boxer shorts and boots. The dogs made no move to chase him, instead turning their attention to the two remaining solders still struggling against the canine onslaught. Their arms and faces were spattered in blood, their uniforms shredded, and after a few more seconds lay in fetal positions, in pure submission. The dogs mostly ceased their attack and stood poised over the quivering men, teeth bared and growling.

John Connor smiled as he cautiously walked toward the growling pack guarding their prey and picked up Mason's discarded carbine. The rottweiler, now recognized by the other dogs as the leader, regarded John with angry eyes and teeth and was rearing on its haunches to attack him when John lowered the carbine's barrel and fired a single shot into the ground at its feet. The dogs yelped and scattered, fleeing into the darkness. He smiled again and muttered, "At ease, soldiers."

He couldn't believe the trick with the dogs actually worked. John had shadowed Ruiz's detail for a few moments, tracing their patrol, then crept back into the wealthy neighborhood and quickly mapped out the homes with their canine guards. He'd sneaked between the back yards of the homes on Whittier, stripped off his pants and shirt and whipped them in the faces of the outraged dogs that hurled themselves against their owners' fences to attack the intruder. Many of the homes were unoccupied, but a few people stuck their heads out to see what was going on. When John was certain he'd gotten the dogs riled up enough, he opened the yard gates and ran back up Whittier, trailing his clothing. He knew that most guard animals, particularly certain breeds of dogs trained to attack, would fix themselves on the scent of an intruder's clothing and latch onto it to bring him to submission.

The tattered remains of his clothing lay mixed with the torn pieces of the guardsmen's uniforms. He bent down to pick up his wallet, which lay open by itself near his torn pants, inspected its contents and nodded cheerfully. He felt giddy. He looked at the whimpering, huddled forms of Ruiz and the other man and gazed warmly into the Latino's fearful eyes.

"A little human compassion can go a long way," John said as he flipped the safety on and swung the stock of the carbine into Ruiz's face. The sergeant collapsed to the ground. Gundersen held his hands up and whimpered, "Please don't hurt me."

John looked thoughtfully at the man's boots. "You wear a size 12 medium?" he asked cordially.

Gundersen nodded dumbly. "Yeah?"

"I need your boots," John said, grinning.

5

"I have no idea what you're talking about," James Ellison told Dr. Eldon Tyrell.

Dr. Tyrell smiled wolfishly. "I believe you know exactly what it is I'm referring to," he said firmly.

"Even if we had what you're looking for, it was probably destroyed in the explosion," James said. "Regardless, ZeiraCorp never took possession of such a thing."

"You survived the explosion," Dr. Tyrell pointed out. "I'm very sure it would have as well."

"I can't help you," James said with finality. "And I believe our conversation is over. My apologies, Dr. Kogan, Dr. Tyrell, I must decline. Now I would like to rest." He held Savannah's hand tightly.

"Very unfortunate," Dr. Tyrell said, sounding genuinely sad. "I had hoped we could come to a mutual agreement, but now I believe we should try negotiating." He pulled out a smartphone and tapped its screen.

"Wha-" James stammered. He didn't get to start his sentence when the door suddenly opened and two combat-dressed soldiers armed with pistols strode into the room. They stood at parade rest several feet away from the bed. Behind them, nearly filling the entire door frame, stood a tall, bald black man in a combat uniform with unmoving, almost glazed eyes. James felt a chill reach down his spine.

"What is this...?" James demanded. "Where are you taking me?"

"They're not here to take you, Mr. Ellison," Tyrell said ominously. He nodded to the soldiers and they approached the bed. James saw who they were coming for and shouted, "NO!" He held Savannah tightly against him. They reached out to grab her. Savannah shrieked and held onto James for dear life, tearing his hospital gown as they pulled. James tried to fight them, pounding their arms and faces with his fists, to no avail as they shrugged off the blows. Savannah screamed as they carried her out of the room, her cries echoing down the hall. James clambered out of the bed to run after them but his good leg collapsed beneath him. His amputated ankle hit the floor and shocking pain shot up his body and he cried out, landing in a quaking heap on the hard floor. Dr. Kogan closed her eyes and shook her head. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"Now I believe we can make a trade, Mr. Ellison," Tyrell said, smiling warmly. He turned to the black soldier and said, "Thank you, Lieutenant Simmons." The lieutenant nodded and shut the door.

Outside, across the hall, a patient door opened a crack. Nurse Sandra peeked out and looked around. Her heart pounded like a jackhammer. In one hand she held a can of Coca-Cola. Her other hand crept to her mouth to shut off a scream she thought was coming. She'd watched the soldiers from behind the door in horror, flinching at the sound of the girl screaming as they carried her away.

6

The Army National Guard checkpoint at the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica Boulevards was manned by a platoon of twenty-two men and three women. Two Humvees sat together with their engine compartments open and some of the parts laid out on the ground nearby. Most of their electronic equipment, including radios, was still damaged by the EMP burst and they were relying on a simple system of runners to get and receive information from the temporary HQ set up at the hospital. One of the runners was returning from the hospital with orders to stand by when a lone figure approached the checkpoint. The corporal on point signaled the visitor to halt.

"Feathers," the corporal challenged.

"Horse," the visitor answered.

The corporal relaxed. "Where are your men, Sergeant Ruiz? And what happened to you? Are you okay?"

The guardsman standing before the corporal looked like he'd been through a shredding bin. His ACU jacket's sleeves were torn almost to shreds and his pants were similarly ripped. Blood was spattered on his hands, cheeks and helmet. He gestured with his carbine at himself. "I need medical attention, corporal. My unit ran into a pack of dogs that the neighbors here must have set loose. I was bit a few times. Mason and Gundersen are missing and I need to make a full report."

"Oh, Jesus, sir, yeah, the hospital's right up the way, there." The corporal pointed to Cedars Sinai's towers looming in the distance. The windows were lit, which surprised the sergeant. "They got power?" he asked.

The corporal said, "Yes sir, about twenty minutes ago. Don't know how much is up and running in the city, but the hospital was the first to restore it in this area. You better go and get yourself checked out."

The visitor said "Thank you," and resumed his march toward the medical center campus. "Sergeant Ruiz" pushed his helmet up above his forehead and gazed around downtown Beverly Hills with green eyes that noted every detail. He spotted a sniper team atop the Sony Music Building and walked past infantry squads setting up barricades with M249 light automatic guns along the way to the hospital. A few soldiers spared him a glance or two but no one else challenged him. He was thankful for that.

Since impersonating Sergeant Ruiz, John Connor had been nervous about infiltrating the growing base of operations surrounding Cedars Sinai Medical, and the military activity was starting to look like an army of occupation rather than riot control. The main bulk of the National Guard's force was concentrated in and around the medical campus, and John immediately felt that going to see James and Savannah may not be an easy thing to do at all. There were crowds of people gathered outside the main hospital entrance, troops were busy wrangling them like cattle, he heard shouting, babies crying.

It looked like chaos outside, and he grimaced at the thought of what it was like inside the hospital. As he approached the main entrance of the hospital he heard staccato gunfire in the distance and people screaming, then several more gunshots, then silence. John shuddered and pulled his helmet back down.

After several minutes of pushing his way past panicked, unruly civilians he walked past the guard detail at the entrance and into the hospital. He'd never been in Cedars Sinai before and the immensity of the main building was awe-inspiring. To John, the hospital looked more like a museum than a place of healing. Glass walls and cubic architecture made up the visitor's center and the interior walls were adorned with modern art and surrealistic sculptures. John didn't have long to admire the view, however. He quickly found himself part of a roiling sea of humanity. To John, it was almost a scene of horror.

The lobby was bustling with crowds of people in small groups being triaged according to need. All the lobby furniture, including chairs, sofas, and tables, literally anything, was being used as a makeshift bed. About a dozen doctors and more than twice that number of nurses raced around with supplies and charts, tending to the injured and infirm like combat medics. Many of the patients looked like accident victims, but there were also many who appeared to have been shot. John saw supplies literally being thrown around, people lying on the floor, some with gunshots, and blood was everywhere he looked. People were screaming, soldiers were shouting orders above the din. As he was trying to make it through the swarming crowds, dodging racing medical personnel like bullets, John accidentally bumped into somebody.

"Pardon me," he said to the man he collided with. The man was dressed in digital camouflaged ACU jacket and pants and he turned around, annoyed. John's stomach went cold when he saw the captain's insignia on his shoulders. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the officer's face.

_Holy shit,_ he thought, _Martin Bedell..._

"Sergeant," Captain Bedell said, looking John up and down. Bedell descended from a long line of soldiers and his martial bearing reflected his lineage. He was more heavily muscled than John remembered him and his cold eyes were set in granite features that didn't seem to move even when he spoke. His brow furrowed. "Are you all right? You look like you just got back from Afghanistan."

John was glad he still had the helmet pulled down low, obscuring most of his face. He didn't want Bedell to cause a scene, even though they hadn't seen each other for three years. "My detail and I were attacked by a stray dog pack, sir," John said. "I was bitten and need to see a doctor. I don't want to get rabies."

"Well then, I guess we need to have a medic take a look," Bedell agreed. "And we should get you out of that uniform. Go see Lieutenant Tomlinson in the ER, he'll have somebody treat you."

"Yes sir," John said, saluting.

"No need to salute, sergeant," Bedell said, sounding weary. He turned on his heel and walked away, moving through the crowds toward the administration offices. John blew out a slow breath. He was glad Bedell didn't recognize him despite their past camaraderie, but John almost wished they could stand and talk for a few moments. He wanted to thank Bedell.

It was Martin Bedell who'd saved John in that other future timeline, convincing the Resistance leadership that John Connor was a man who could be trusted. But then, this Bedell wouldn't have known that. Nor would he have understood.

John took a moment to check the hospital directory and decided to first look in the North Critical Care Tower, where Ellison would likely be. He made his way through the connecting annex from the Main Building and after pushing his way through the crowds of soldiers and patients being wheeled or carried to where they needed to be he made it to the front desk area of the North Tower. There was a crowd of people pushing each other and shouting at the desk, and John grimaced, discouraged. He decided to go upstairs, where he thought the insanity might be reduced. The elevators looked like they were working but John decided to take the stairs. He didn't want to risk confrontation in an enclosed space if suspicions were aroused, especially if somebody recognized Ruiz's name but found a different face wearing his uniform.

Everywhere John went there was chaos but beneath that he could feel a definite air of martial law. Soldiers were everywhere in the hospital, some more heavily armed than others. He suspected that the Guard had been federalized and soldiers patrolling curfew now had orders to shoot to kill first and write reports later. He remembered the screams and gunshots from earlier and memories of witnessing a firing squad executing suspected anarchists in Nicaragua with Sarah at his side, trying to shield his eyes from the terrible scene came flooding back to him.

_Something big, real big going on,_ he thought as he climbed the stairs. It was more than just an EMP explosion knocking out the electrical infrastructure, he mused. The city was under martial law, and they were turning Cedars Sinai into a military district command post. He made it to the second floor and went to the nurses' station. Three female nurses and two guardsmen occupied the station. None of the computers seemed to work and the guardsmen looked bored. The nurses were looking over reams of papers and making notes with pencils. There were still a lot of people on this floor but not as many as on the first. A male nurse brushed his shoulder as he ran past him, chirping "Sorry" as he disappeared down one of the patient halls.

He had the feeling that without his stolen uniform he wouldn't have had the run of the place like he did. He approached the desk and addressed the ladies.

"Hello nurses," he greeted them, "I'm looking for two civilians who were admitted earlier today, James Ellison and Savannah Ellison. Do you know which room they're in?"

Two of the ladies looked up at him wearily. The third did not. She looked frightened. John decided to deal with her. "Ma'am, do you know which room?"

The nurse nodded and said, "Yes, I think." She was a slightly plump woman with pleasant features and graying collar-length hair. She gripped a can of Coke in her left hand, seemingly unwilling to let it go. "Let me take you to their room," she said and led John down the hallway to the patient rooms.

She waited until they were away from the station and she asked, "Are you family, sir?"

"In a manner of speaking," he replied. "My name's John."

Her eyes sparked when she heard his name and a tiny smile crept to her mouth. "You saved James and Savannah from that fire downtown?"

"Yes," John said cautiously, then smirked. "I guess my legend's getting around, huh?"

"Sure is," she said. "My name's Sandra Brewster, by the way."

John smiled, nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Sandra. I see the lights are on but none of the equipment's working?."

Sandra Brewster hesitated before speaking. "Most of the lights are working now, but just some of the equipment's back up. Departments like radiology and nuclear medicine were largely unaffected, possibly because of where they were situated. Other units like the ER had a lot of their equipment shut down. None of the computers are working. You saw Nurses Kovach and Hansen back there checking off all the new patients that were admitted. Everything's being done on paper at the moment. Army's keeping most of this place in order, but the regular hospital administration was more or less taken over by the military." Sandra suddenly halted a few doors down from their destination and gripped his arm.

"There are two soldiers in the room with James and another man and there's also a woman," Sandra whispered.

John paused. "Okay? Maybe a protection detail. James ran a large company." he whispered.

She shook her head. "No, I don't think so. The woman looks like she's deathly sick with something and the man seemed...very strange, somehow threatening. I had a bad feeling about them from the beginning. There was shouting in there after I left them to get something to drink and when I was getting back I saw two of them dragging the girl out of there and she was screaming."

John's heart turned to ice. "Savannah?" he whispered, his anger rising.

She nodded. "I don't know exactly where, but they took her down the opposite end of this wing."

"What's down that way?"

"Pharmacy and radiology."

John closed his eyes and slowly pulled back the charging handle on his stolen M4, loading the magazine and thumbed the selector to single-shot position. He had four more carbine magazines plus three for the Beretta M9 he took from Sergeant Ruiz but he could under no circumstances attempt to fight his way through the hospital in a blaze of gunfire with the US Army.

_Not without Cameron or Uncle Bob, _he thought wistfully. He needed to plan his assault and had formed a half-assed idea when Sandra suddenly said, "There was another one, a big guy. Officer, I think. He looked like bad news. I don't know where he is now."

John sucked in a long breath and held it. He thought about going downstairs to talk to Bedell and plead for his help but decided against it. Bedell was an unknown factor in this timeline, and John didn't know if the captain could be fully trusted. He couldn't save both James and Savannah at the same time but freeing James first would enable him to escape with Sandra amid the confusion that would erupt if there was gunfire...which, of course, John told himself he'd try to avoid. Then he could try to find and free Savannah, but he had no idea how many more sentries occupied the floor.

"You have access to the pharmacy?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Here's what I want you to do," he whispered to Sandra, and quickly explained his plan.

7

Captain Martin Bedell was in the hospital's administration offices when the new JTRS (Joint Tactical Radio System) military communications equipment was delivered. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was installed and activated. Now the Guard could communicate easier and faster between units without having to rely on the runners. His immediate superior, Major Harrison, wasted no time in using the new radios to get back in touch with his lieutenants and to coordinate the defensive units ringing the medical campus. He was also looking forward to getting some news from the outside, which was something Bedell was also anxious to know. He'd heard rumors of war, and he wanted to separate fact from fiction.

Little by little the army's electronic gear was being replaced with fresh equipment, particularly by electronics that had been shielded from EMP radiation. Bedell, initially coordinator of small unit patrols around the hospital, now found himself placed in charge of coordinating the delivery and distribution of the new equipment throughout the medical campus and was just getting to work when one of his sergeants called him into the ER. Bedell, easily annoyed when interrupted, marched into the Emergency Room to see what the matter was. He was greeted by the sight of two soldiers lying on gurneys with multiple lacerations, contusions and what looked like-

"Bite marks?" Bedell inquired, incredulous.

Major Tomlinson, the chief medical officer, said, "Yes, they described an attack by a pack of dogs that this 'naked guy' sicced on them in one of the neighborhoods west of here."

Bedell folded his arms and said, "That jibes with what Sergeant Ruiz told me ten minutes ago."

One of the dog attack victims, covered in blood and sporting a full tribal-pattern tattoo sleeve on his left arm, tried to sit up, failed, and bellowed, "_I'm Sergeant Ruiz!_ Cocksucker who hit us with the dogs stole my gear and uniform!"

Bedell stared at the man, finally recognized him, and a look of dread spread across his face.

_Oh, Jesus,_ he thought. He raced back to Administration, boots pounding like war drums.

8

"Mr. Ellison, I'm sure you do not understand the importance of Project Angel," Dr. Kogan rasped. She had to clear her throat several times before continuing. "It started thirty years ago when I obtained my Ph.D in molecular biology, which I became interested in after listening to Carl Woese lecture on the subject at the University of Illinois in 1981. By that time I was finishing my residency at University of Chicago Medical and had lost my first husband and mother to cancer. It was then that I felt this calling to focus my mental energies to investigate the prolonging of life and enhancing the body's resistance to ailments that could corrupt or destroy living tissues." She paused for breath and then continued. "After I graduated from Illinois, I worked closely with Dr. Woese and other eminent biologists there and discovered a possible way to introduce archeons into an organism's genetic framework to make changes...beneficial changes to a life system."

"Archeons?" James inquired, tilting his head. It was a term he'd never heard of.

"Microscopic life forms," Tyrell explained, smiling. "And almost inorganic themselves. They have no nuclei but are extremely robust and can survive in almost every type of environment. They are almost machine-like in that they can be manipulated to perform a myriad of tasks, such as interacting with cells and inserting new RNA sequences into a DNA strand, much as a virus does, but archeons don't cause infection and don't run rampant like viruses do. They are all around us, in fact, even _in_ us. There are prokaryotes that live in your stomach that aid in digestion. But they were only one of many initial steps that propelled our work."

Dr. Kogan coughed and nodded. "Yes. We had so much to learn about genetic replication and sequence reprogramming of DNA but eventually my research caught the attention of Dr. Emil Ashkenaz at Cyberdyne Systems, as he was pioneering the interaction of organic components with mechanical systems, a science you may be familiar with: cybernetics."

"I've heard of it," James said cautiously.

"It wasn't at first an area I was interested in applying my work, but the ramifications of these studies were enormous. Enhancing the body's ability to fight off disease and repair cellular and tissue damage was my primary research goal, but I became fascinated with bodily enhancement, such as improving muscle-skeletal structures and strengthening interactions between nerves and motor functions. Eventually I discovered a way to program archeons to aid in these interactions. They became the key in allowing seamless coordination between organic tissues and biomechanical systems...in effect paving the groundwork for creating the first cybernetic organisms, or _cyborgs_."

"What has this got to do with kidnapping my daughter?" James demanded. His eyes were sullen, smoldering with anger. "I still don't understand what this has to do with my company and my family. If you harm Savannah, I'll-"

"-do nothing, Mr. Ellison," Tyrell cut him off, saying it as pleasantly as if he had said, _Good morning_. "She is safe, which is all you need to know. I have special permission by the Governor of California to ensure your cooperation in this matter, which is why I have a detachment of soldiers placed under my direct command." He gestured to the two National Guardsmen flanking the doorway, stone-still and emotionless. "As soon as you tell us the location of what we're looking for, you will have Savannah back and go your way. As for ZeiraCorp," he smiled wolfishly. "As of five hours ago my corporation assumed all assets and controlling interests of it. Your board of directors have voted you out of the CEO position."

James's face contorted. "Wha- how?"

"I made your shareholders an offer not easily refutable. Also, Mr. Neilson had expressed his dissatisfaction with your direction, as did Mr. Cohen. ZeiraCorp is now officially folded into the Tyrell Corporation. We could eventually locate what we're looking for ourselves, but I prefer the easy way. My side offer still stands, though. We can restore your missing limb...if you want. I would also be delighted to have you as a part of my executive board to smooth the transition, especially after the terrible tragedy at your headquarters." Tyrell's warm smile glowed darkly.

"The choice is yours, Mr. Ellison."

_Savannah_, James's mind screamed. He knew exactly what Tyrell was looking for, and under any other circumstance he'd gladly give it to this devil of a human being and be reunited with his daughter. But he'd made an unspoken promise to never unearth the existence of what Tyrell somehow knew of, at least not until the right time had arrived, and James had lied so much and so often and the shame of lying about it tortured him nightly. The knowledge of what James had kept secret was too dangerous to be revealed, to himself, to Savannah, to the world.

He couldn't give it up. Not for Savannah. And Savannah was much more important to him. In that terrible moment he finally understood Catherine Weaver's meaning of sacrifice.

"No." James spoke the word with cold, unyielding steel.

Tyrell sighed. "I'm afraid I can no longer guarantee Savannah's safety, then," he said, sounding genuinely sad. He turned to the two sentries and was about to speak when the sound of somebody knocking on the door startled everyone in the room. Tyrell nodded and one of the guardsmen opened it.

Nurse Sandra entered the room pushing a food service cart in front of her. She was followed by a soldier. James squinted his eyes. The helmet obscured most of the soldier's face, but there was something familiar about him. The soldier's uniform was torn on its legs and sleeves, which James thought was very odd.

"I brought food for everybody here," the nurse announced. "I'm sure you in particular need to eat, James."

Tyrell frowned. "Nobody here requested anything to eat," he protested.

Sandra shrugged and curtly said, "Nobody should have to request anything here." She picked up a wrapped sandwich and brought it over to PFC Willis, the guard standing to the left of the door. "Here you go, honey." The guardsman glared at it, temptation sparking his salivary glands. He hadn't had much to eat all day and he glanced over to his partner. The other sentry shrugged, smiling crookedly.

Willis smiled. "Thanks, ma'am" he said as he reached for the sandwich. His hands barely touched it when he felt jabbing pain in his neck and saw the nurse's other hand draw away from his neck, holding a syringe. Then the wooziness hit. He felt his body slacken, suddenly feeling very heavy, and he staggered forward. Willis looked over in time to see Davis, his partner, rush forward to restrain the nurse and watched helplessly as the other guy, Sgt. Ruiz, sneak up behind Davis with a syringe of his own and stick it in Davis's neck. "What the hell-" he managed to get out before the same effects dropped him almost as quickly as Willis. Both sentries crumpled to their knees, their muscles turned to jelly. The soldier in the torn uniform then rammed the stock of his carbine into the back of their skulls, and they slumped forward, unmoving.

"Uh-uh," the intruder warned Tyrell as he reached into his coat pocket. He held up the carbine, barrel aimed directly at Tyrell's head. "Use two fingers to grab it and bring it out slowly," the sergeant instructed him. Tyrell reluctantly obeyed and slowly pulled out a rectangular object. It was an Android smartphone. "Put it on the ground without touching any buttons and walk over to the corner and face the wall," the sergeant commanded. Tyrell did exactly as he was told and shuffled over to the corner like a scolded schoolboy. "Sandra, pick it up and let me see it, please," the sergeant said. She retrieved it and handed it to him. The smartphone was powered on. "Son of a bitch," the sergeant muttered. "Must be EMP-hardened or something."

"They won't stay down forever," Sandra said, pointing to the unconscious guardsmen. "100 milligrams of Brevital will wear off after five minutes."

"Help me, then," the sergeant said. He whipped the bed sheets off James and pulled out a folding knife. He began cutting, then tearing the sheets into strips. He handed some to her and said, "Strip both of them to their undies and pile their clothes and gear over by that corner. Be careful with their guns! Then tie 'em up as best you can, wrists and ankles, and gag 'em."

James sat up. "Who are you?" he asked.

The soldier in the ragged uniform removed his helmet. "Your employee of the month, James," John Connor said.

James Ellison's heart chest glowed with joy. "John!" he exclaimed, grinning. "I thought that was your voice." He tried clambering out of the bed. "They've got Savannah!" he said.

"I know," John said, rushing forward to grip James's hand. "Keep it down! We'll get you and Savannah outta here. But we gotta move fast. Sandra, unlock the bed wheels and get James downstairs to the main lobby. Look or ask for Captain Martin Bedell. He knows me. He'll help us."

"Bedell's here?" James exclaimed.

"Yeah. We should still be in his good graces. Speak only to him. Tell him about me and Derek Reese and Presidio Alto. Here," he handed James his Beretta. "Take it. Sandra, get him downstairs. Find Bedell!"

"What are you gonna do?" James hissed.

John said, "First I'm going to have a quick conversation with our guests," he said, pointing to Tyrell in the corner, then Dr. Kogan, who sat stone-faced in her chair, unmoving. "Then I'm going to get your daughter. Wherever she is, I don't think they'll do anything until they get orders from these two. James, tell Bedell I'm up here and I need his help." John grabbed a pile of bed sheets out of the closet and threw them over James, covering his body and the gun. "Sandra, move!"

Sandra unlocked the bed wheels and began pushing James out of the room. As she moved past John she grabbed him in a hug and kissed his cheek. "Protect him, Lord," she prayed quickly and exited out to the hall with the bed. John heard James whisper, "See you later," then the sound of the wheels rolling away.

"None of this was intended," Dr. Kogan rasped. She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I had no idea it would come to this."

"Shut up," John barked. He shut the door, kicked off his boots and stripped off his torn jacket and pants. He picked up Willis's discarded jacket from the pile and tried it on. It was slightly oversized but would do. He then tried on the pants and secured them with the belt. His new ACU was slightly baggy but he didn't think anyone would care. He picked up his carbine and held it ready at Dr. Tyrell's back. "Turn around," he commanded.

Tyrell did. John expected him to look nervous, maybe piss his pants, but the scientist was stoic, appearing unafraid. He stared at John with a look of almost paternal familiarity. John gripped the carbine tightly. A feeling of deja-vu swept through him. He was sure he knew the man from somewhere. He turned to Dr. Kogan.

"Project Angel," John began, "what is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tyrell protested.

John aimed the carbine at Tyrell's stomach. "I wasn't talking to you, moron," he growled. "Shut up over there."

"Project Angel is none of your concern," she rasped.

"It is now, especially after you and your friend here held my loved ones hostage," John said. "And you owe me a favor, Dr. Kogan, after I saved you from the ZeiraCorp building. I had Cohen and Neilson carry you down the stairs to safety. A little explanation is the least you could do."

"Don't," Tyrell warned her. John rushed forward and swung the stock of the carbine around, smashing the end of it squarely in Tyrell's belly. The man choked out a sob of air and fell to his knees, stars dancing in his vision, and he held his abdomen in a grip of pain.

"I told you to shut the fuck up," John scolded.

Dr. Kogan removed her glasses and massaged her eyes beneath her lids. She hated violence. "Please," she said. "No more. Project Angel is part of an attempt to make the human race better through replicating organic tissue systems at the cellular level and augment those systems with cybernetic implants."

John glowered. "You're making Terminators," he hissed. "You're Cyberdyne, aren't you? I thought I saw your name on one of my searches a while back, when my mother and I tried shutting down Skynet's development."

She shook her head. "I know very little about the old Skynet program," she said. "I was in charge of the bioengineering and genetics divisions. What are Terminators?"

"Forget it," John growled. "I've heard enough." He aimed the carbine at Tyrell. "Where's Savannah?"

Tyrell looked up at John from the floor and laughed. "I knew it was you, John Connor," he said as he pulled himself up to a sitting position. "You haven't changed since we last met. As for your mother, I'm sure the next time you meet her will be a profound experience for you. Please give her my regards if the two of you do meet."

"How do you know who I am?" John asked, feeling his heart lurch. The man did look familiar. Where did he see him before? "What does my mother have to do with you?"

Tyrell smiled wickedly. "If you found out the truth then you might regard me as your grandfather, in a way," he said cryptically. He chuckled again. "Let's just say that you're more than a few steps behind, Connor."

John pressed the muzzle against Tyrell's forehead. "Where'd they take the girl?"

Tyrell smiled warmly. "Kill me, Connor. My death will only set our program back a few years, but others will resume my work. You can't kill all of us."

John regarded the man with growing dread. _Gray,_ he thought. He couldn't recall where he'd met him, but John remembered the voice, remembered a younger face, and he realized that the man standing before him had come from the future. Now he was here, older and somehow more powerful, with troops at his command. He indicated he was one of many. How many had gone back? Did Skynet send them back to reward them, like Fischer, or to accelerate its plans? _I should kill him,_ John thought, _but that would mean crossing a line I drew for myself a long time ago._ He sighed. He wasn't a murderer, but he had heard enough horseshit to last him a whole year. He picked up something from the food cart and approached Tyrell. Tyrell tilted his head, curious, and saw with dread that Connor had a syringe in his hand. "No...don't," he pleaded.

"Night-night," John said. He knelt down, pinning Tyrell to the floor. Tyrell struggled but was no match for John's strength as the younger man locked him in a judo hold with one arm and with his free hand inserted the needle into Tyrell's jugular vein, injecting 100 milligrams of methohexital sodium. John felt Tyrell's struggling lessen, then cease altogether. He grabbed what remained of the strips of bed sheets and quickly tied Tyrell's hands and feet. He left the unconscious scientist on the floor and towered over Dr. Kogan. "Will you help me?" he asked.

Dr. Kogan smiled. "I'm dying, Mr. Connor," she said. "But my life's work was to preserve life, and if I could not, to improve the quality of it. But it seems that anything intended for good may be twisted to become bad." She wiped a single tear from her cheek and pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket. "The passcode for Tyrell's guard details. He had them stationed in the radiology lab, critical care, cancer ward, and several other units The girl could have been taken to any of them. Memorize it and throw it away. I don't think I'll need it for where I'm going." She smiled at her little joke. John found himself smiling as well, then frowned. Savannah could be anywhere, and he couldn't spend all night searching the hospital, especially with soldiers working for the Gray. Then a thought sparked.

He took out Tyrell's Android phone and turned it on. It was pattern-locked. _Damn! _He looked around the room. A fluorescent lamp hung mounted above one of the counters. He ran over to turn it on and held the Android phone under the light. Fingertips produce oils that show up under special lighting. He could faintly make out the tracing path of Tyrell's fingertip as he unlocked the device, and John retraced the pattern. The Android unlocked.

He checked the recent calls and found no calls made earlier today. He looked in the SMS app and found a text sent to a contact named Simmons. It read, TAKE THE GIRL TO RAD LAB AND AWAIT COMMAND. Out of curiosity, he looked at Simmons's contact info. Simmons was listed under a group called "N1." He checked the rest of the group, looking at names, and his eyebrows raised when he found a familiar name on the list: DANFORD, BRENT.

John remembered the man. The US Marshal who interrogated him earlier at the federal building. He had all the unemotional mannerisms of a T-888, but what was N1? Some new Terminator model designation? There were over a dozen names on the list, and John's belly twisted.

He put the phone back in his pocket. "Thank you, Dr. Kogan. I'd get out of here if I were you. Grays working for Skynet don't have forgiving attitudes." He turned to leave.

"Watch out for Lieutenant Simmons," she abruptly rasped.

John looked back at her. "Huh?"

"He's one of Tyrell's abominations," she said.

John nodded his head. "Take care," he said in parting as he left the room. At that exact moment the hospital's corridors erupted with the shrieking of sirens.

9

"Oh, Christ," Sergeant Novacek grumbled as the fire alarm went off. He didn't like the fact that he had to babysit a kid, but orders were orders, no matter what flavor they came in. Tyrell, the "government representative" who apparently had some clout over this operation, had assigned him and his two specialists the security detail, told them that the red-haired girl was a "person of interest" in the ZeiraCorp explosion from earlier and that he'd return to question her and possibly release her. Novacek didn't like any bit of it. He wanted to know where the MPs who usually handled security details were and why they were holing up in the radiology lab. Novacek had an instinctive dislike for the equipment, regarding it with a particular distrust of invisible rays that could fry you from the inside-out if something went wrong. The radiology technician who remained in the lab with them assured them that the equipment was safe.

"My balls will be sending you a bill if it isn't, pal," Novacek told him sarcastically.

The girl lay strapped tightly to the table in the middle of the x-ray room. Novacek gazed at her through the window, cringing at her growing terror which stained her cheeks with tears. He had a daughter about her age and he regarded the situation the girl was put in with dread. The x-ray tube hung suspended above her like some sterile and yet terrible weapon. He looked down at the control console the x-ray tech sat in front of, noting all the glowing bulbs and switches, indicating all was ready to go. The tech himself looked all of eighteen and nervous, clearly not liking the situation himself.

Suddenly the lab door opened and his platoon leader, Lieutenant Simmons, strode in. Novacek tried not to focus on the officer's eyes because they gave him the creeps. The platoon leader looked like a walking mannequin. When he spoke, his voice was expressionless, machine-like.

"Status report, sergeant?"

Novacek shrugged. "We're all good, sir."

"I want to hear a report more detailed than that, sergeant."

Novacek's blood turned ice-cold. "The specialists and I are ready and awaiting further orders, sir. No activity from the...prisoner...at all. Sir."

Simmons nodded. "Very well, sergeant. We have a security alert at this time. Be on guard for an individual posing as Sergeant Ruiz. He may be wearing a damaged combat uniform. If you see this person, you have authorization to engage and terminate. He is considered armed and dangerous." He glared at each man, then said, "Carry on, I shall return momentarily."

"Engage and...terminate, sir? As in shoot to kill?" Novacek asked.

"Yes, sergeant, I don't believe I need to make myself clearer. In the meantime, keep the prisoner under guard." Simmons performed a perfect about-face and marched out of the lab.

Novacek shivered. "Spooky asshole," he muttered under his breath.

10

"Yes sir, that is correct, subject is impersonating a Sergeant Pedro Ruiz from First Platoon, Bravo Company, Third Support Battalion," Captain Martin Bedell said into the radio. "According to Sergeant Ruiz, when they stopped him, they checked his ID. The subject was identified as Connor, Ruiz thinks his first name was John or Jim, no way to verify that info. This subject is considered armed and dangerous. He's also versed in unconventional warfare. What? Yes sir, he somehow turned a dog pack loose on Ruiz and two others patrolling the outer Beverly Hills perimeter. I'm locking the hospital down, that's why you're hearing the alarm going off. This Connor, alias 'Ruiz,' is wearing a damaged alpha-charlie-uniform with sleeves and pant legs torn. I'm conducting a sweep of every floor in the medical campus and sniper teams are ready on the rooftops. We'll find him sir. Out."

Bedell dropped the radio on the desk he was using and picked up his SDM-R, a modified version of the M-16A2 infantry rifle. He checked the safety, grabbed his helmet and as he left his temporary office he was flagged by Corporal Reed, who was acting as his secretary. "Sir," he called out, "Just got a call from Sergeant Barnes out in the main lobby. He and his men intercepted one of the nurses and a patient from upstairs. The patient is identifying himself as Derek Reese from Presidio Alto. He wants to talk to you right away."

_Derek Reese...Presidio... _The words brought echoes of the past to the surface of Bedell's memory. He remembered the emotionless assassin from an unbelievable future stalking him and meeting his rescuers Reese and...Connor. John Connor.

"Connor," he said aloud, remembering Ruiz's story. _Son of a bitch. So that was the guy who bumped into me earlier... _He raced out to the lobby, his blood roiling in his ears. He saw one of the nurses standing next to a bed on which a bald, tough-looking black man rested, surrounded by a squad of National Guardsmen and two MPs. The squad sergeant, Barnes, saluted Bedell and said, "Apologies, sir, this patient says he knows you and has important information."

"We confiscated this from him, sir," one of the MPs said, handing Bedell an army-issue Beretta.

"I had it for my own protection, lieutenant," the black man said.

Bedell frowned. "You don't look like Derek Reese," he said.

"Thank you. Best compliment I've heard all day," the man cracked. "My name is James Ellison. You might have heard of me. John Connor is upstairs and he needs some help with rescuing my daughter. Interested?"

Bedell's jaw crept open. So Connor was here. He made his decision in seconds. "Squad, follow me, weapons ready!" he bellowed. He ran to the elevators, the squad following in step, leaving Ellison and the nurse under the watch of the military policemen.

11

The sirens were really starting to irritate Novacek when he heard a knock on the door. _Sure wouldn't be the El-tee,_ he thought. Simmons had a key badge. He walked up to the door and yelled, "Password?"

"Rachel," came the reply. Novacek sighed and opened the door. A soldier in a gray-and-tan ACU like his own wearing a helmet with a slung M4 on his right arm stood in the doorway. The sergeant recognized the name printed on the jacket: WILLIS. "What is it, private?" he greeted.

The PCF named Willis said, "Sir, I need you to come out and see something, quick. It's important."

Novacek sighed and said, "I'll be back, guys." He stepped over the threshold and was immediately flattened by a blow to his jaw by the butt of the carbine. He fell backwards and lay sprawled across the threshold. The two specialists in the lab looked in bewilderment and before they could react the intruder aimed his carbine low and fired four quick shots. The soldiers felt exploding pain in their lower legs and crumpled to the floor. They attempted to pull back the actions on their own weapons to fire back but the intruder moved fast, kicking the carbine out of one specialist's hands and smashing the stock of his carbine into the other man's face. He kicked both weapons away. The lab tech shot up from his seat and stood staring at the intruder, his body shaking. A trickle of urine formed a puddle on the floor from his pant legs.

"You," John Connor said, aiming his weapon at the tech. "Where's the girl?"

"I-i-in th-there," the tech stammered, pointing to the x-ray room. John ran over and tried to open the door. It was locked. "Unlock the fucking door!" he roared.

The tech whimpered and tried the keyboard on the control console, fiddling with it for a few seconds. "I can't," he yelled, "that other guy locked it with a different access code!"

"Shit!" John shouted. He pulled the tech away from the console and looked inside the x-ray room. Savannah turned her head toward the window and her eyes widened at the sight of John. He backed away from the window and fired a burst at the glass, shattering the first layer but the second layer remained intact. He jumped on the console and tried kicking the glass in, breaking part of it. Then he felt something strong grip him from behind and John found himself being hurled against the rear wall. The impact rattled his skull, and as he slid to the floor he found himself staring at a huge black man in an army uniform bearing down on him, arms like tree trunks, eyes cold, unblinking.

Panic stiffened John. The horrifying thought barreled through his head like a freight train

_(FUCK! TERMINATOR!)_

and before he even started thinking he whipped the M4 up, clicked it to burst mode and emptied the clip into the torso of the cyborg monstrosity, knowing that the bullets wouldn't hurt the thing but might give John a few seconds to plan his next move.

Which, he admitted to himself, would be virtually useless.

To John's surprise, the soldier was knocked back a few feet by the spray of gunfire, and John was further astonished to see the man stagger and look down at his chest in bewilderment, as if shocked that he was bleeding. A sickening thought raced through John's mind

_(Jesus Christ! Did I just shoot a human being?)_

but his thoughts were brushed away by the sight of the man standing upright again and his face turning expressionless. John quickly ejected the clip and shoved a new one into the carbine. He pressed the bolt release and held the carbine level at the soldier, who now pinched his face into a look of anger and renewed his attack on John. John fired four bursts into the onrushing figure and found himself crashing through the lab door from the black man's momentum, his body being thrown backward, tripping over Novacek's body, and he crashed to the floor.

The thing shambled through the doorway. John tried aiming his M4 but the metal, human, whatever the hell it was kicked the carbine out of John's hands, sending it skittering away. He caught a glimpse of the man's name on his jacket—SIMMONS—as the ebony figure wrapped its hands around his throat, throttling him. As the blood ceased flowing up his carotid arteries, John groped around, seeking something to use as a weapon and his fingers touched something next him, Novacek's unconscious form. He felt the rubber-gripped handle of a pistol on Novacek's hip and John ripped it from the holster. He thumbed the safety and pressed it into the lieutenant's side, firing three shots.

He felt the fingers loosen from his throat and John saw the look of surprise and pain on Simmons's face. John smashed the side of the gun in his face, kicked him away and scampered to his feet. He turned around just in time to see Simmons advance on him again. He didn't have time to aim the pistol as Simmons swung his fist out and backhanded John down the hallway. John hit the floor and gasped for air, tasting blood. The big man came for him again. John yelled "Son of a bitch!" as the lieutenant's nightmare shape towered over him. John shot him in the chest twice. Simmons staggered backward once, blinked, kept coming. John aimed carefully and shot him in the throat and Simmons fell to his knees. He blew a 9mm hole through Simmons's forehead and the lieutenant collapsed on the floor beside John.

He got up, nudged Simmons with his boot, and was relieved to see the sprawled figure unmoving. He stepped over the stirring form of Sergeant Novacek and ran back into the radiology lab. The tech had fled. He jumped over the console and kicked the glass in. Savannah fidgeted against the straps as John shoved the pistol into his waistband and used his knife to cut her free. "Can you move?" he asked her.

"Of course I can. What took you so long?" she huffed sardonically

"I had to get blood drawn," he deadpanned, wiping blood from his mouth. He helped her off the x-ray table and said, "Now that's three, sweetie."

"Oh, hush," she grumbled, brushing errant strands of red hair from her face. "I had it all under control until you came in shooting the place up."

John let out a laugh, a good one. "Teenagers," he quipped as they raced out of the x-ray room. The two specialists had partially drawn themselves into sitting positions against a wall and were moaning in agony. "Hey!" one shouted. "You're just gonna leave us here?"

"I'll get you a doctor," John shot back. They skirted around a stumbling Novacek, who was too woozy to chase them anyway and wanted nothing more than to go back home to his family. He was sure the bastard broke his jaw, the way it throbbed, sonofabitch... He stared at the unmoving, shot-up body of Lieutenant Simmons, seeing the pooling blood spreading on the floor, and he felt a small vindictiveness. He didn't care for the man, but he hoped PFC Willis would be captured and lit up by a firing squad for killing a superior officer.

Novacek then saw something he couldn't believe.

_ (Wait, did I just see that hand twitch?)_

John hastily ushered Savannah to the elevators. "I got your dad out," he said. He jabbed the button to go down, stood leaning with his outstretched arm against the wall, panting. "I need a vacation."

Savannah rushed forward and hugged him. "Thank you," she said. "You're the greatest hero ever in my book."

"Tell me that after I save the world—oohhhh, _SHIIIIT!"_

Savannah whirled around and saw the stuff of nightmares standing a few feet away from them. Lieutenant Simmons held John's discarded carbine in one hand and raised it to shoot them. Blood seeped from every bullet hole John had shot in him, especially his forehead, but it didn't matter, Simmons was a zombie and nothing could kill him and Savannah screamed, terror claiming her, paralyzing her. John shoved her to the floor and Savannah watched helplessly as the terrible scene played out in front of her, almost in slow motion.

John's hand went for the pistol shoved in his waistband and managed to grip it when Simmons fired three bursts from the carbine. John's body shook in a bizarre dance as the bullets ripped into him, sending him staggering backward, the gun flying from his hand, landing with a clattering thud in front of Savannah. A terrible sound of escaping gas burst from John's chest as he collapsed to the floor, where he lay convulsing.

Simmons seemed to almost smile as he strode forward, carbine lowered, ready to deliver the killing shot. John watched through a haze of crimson as the towering figure entered his entire field of vision, and he only had a few seconds to sputter his last words through a cloud of blood:

"Savannah, run...and remember how much...I love you."

A crimson hole exploded in Simmons's right thigh. He staggered as the leg ceased to support his weight, and as he dropped another hole was blasted through his chest and John looked over, puzzled, to see Savannah gripping the gun with both hands, firing away like an expert, blasting the undead life out of Simmons, blowing holes through his shoulder, arm, neck and skull until he slumped forward face down and when the magazine was spent she continued squeezing the trigger, seemingly unable to stop, the empty gun clicking like a clock in her hands.

John felt strangely serene, felt more relaxed than he'd ever been in his life, his senses contracting and yet expanding, knowing that it was all okay and he could lazily let himself sink through the floor, feeling it become somehow liquid, and as he sank he heard voices, felt pounding footsteps and watched as somebody reached out to pull the gun out of Savannah's hands, and as he continued to recede he saw Savannah's screaming, sobbing face far above, becoming more and more distant as he continued to descend into dark waters, the light diminishing, until he was enveloped in pure darkness.

He floated there for what seemed like eons, suspended in that liquid darkness, feeling cold and yet not shivering. It had scarcely occurred to John Connor that he was dead, but his self-awareness was contracting to a point of nonexistence. His emotions themselves felt frozen, and he felt neither fear nor wonder as faces fleeted in and out of his vision in that unending darkness. He saw Riley Dawson's face shimmer and vanish before him, her tear-stained cheeks the last to disappear. He saw countless others, among them Charley Dixon's, Miles Dyson's, Jordon Cowan's, then he saw Derek's and, finally, inevitably, his father's hardened, defiant features gazing at him through the void: Kyle Reese. Kyle's face slowly disappeared into darkness and John found himself alone once more.

Then John felt warmth flowing back into him as a hand suddenly gripped his own, pulling him up from the depths, and he saw light for the first time in what seemed like eternity. The cold diminished and he felt his strength return. He had the sensation of emerging from beneath the surface of a still, placid sea as the hand, possessing a strength and tenderness that felt so familiar, so loving, brought him to a place that felt more real than reality itself.

And for the first time in a very long while, John Connor was able to breathe.

12

He found himself awakening face down on a comfortable bed in a room dimly lit by drawn shades and closed blinds. Dust hung lazily in the air, nearly weightless, dancing a strange ritual along the micro currents. He opened his eyes and moved his head around. The room looked vaguely familiar, and then he remembered. It was the hotel room he'd stayed in on that Monday in April, before he made the decision to rescue Sarah from the county jail. After she told him not to and simply run away and save himself.

John became aware of another presence in the room, felt a weight pressing on a corner of the bed. He whipped his head and shoulders around to see Cameron Phillips sitting on the edge of the bed gazing at him serenely.

She was dressed in the same black low-cut top and form-fitting jeans and boots she wore that awful day, her beautiful, wavy brown hair flowing down her shoulders the way it did. Her sparkling, mocha eyes studied him with that curious fascination he always picked up right away when he knew she was looking at him, and he always loved that about her, convincing him that she was becoming more and more human with each passing day as she lived with him and his mother.

He sat up in the bed and stared at her in disbelief. She couldn't possibly be there, this room couldn't possibly be there, but there they were, and there he was. He licked his lips, afraid to speak, but he had to know if she really was there with him.

"Hey," he said, knowing how corny the greeting was but it was all he could think of at the moment.

She tilted her head slightly, the way he liked it. She smiled with her perfect lips and said, "Hello."

John slowly drew in a deep breath. "Uh," he began, not sure what to say next. "Where...where am I?"

Cameron shrugged, smiling. "You're here. With me."

John couldn't suppress the smile that was forming on his face. "Really. No joke. It's...really you, Cameron?"

Her brow furrowed, giving him her famous puzzled look when she was perplexed by human idiosyncrasies. "Why wouldn't it be me?" she asked.

"You're dead, Cameron. And so am I. So this is either heaven or purgatory or just some place that souls go to when people die. Or this is some hologram, like _The Matrix_." He shook his head. "Either way, I know I died."

"Not yet, John. I'm not completely gone, either. And we're here. What is hard to believe?"

John shrugged. "I just can't believe we're here...that I'm with you again."

"Would you rather I go away?"

_"NO!" _he cried, and he immediately felt stupid for yelling. "I mean, no, please don't go away. I don't want to lose you...again. Please stay." He felt his heart pounding beneath his shirt, like a horse galloping. He wanted all of this to be real. _Please, God..._

She frowned. "But John, I never left you."

He looked at her incredulously. "But you did, when...when you gave your chip to John Henry and you...went away. John Henry said you were overwritten, that all your programming...everything that was you...was erased so he could function in the future. He said you were willing to die so that I could be safe when Skynet was destroyed." John felt the tears forming at the edges of his eyelids and he let them flow down, unashamed to let her see him cry.

"I followed you into that hell, with Weaver, to try to get you back, but I didn't know...I didn't know what you...that you were beyond saving. I didn't know you sacrificed yourself until I finally caught up with John Henry and he told me!"

"John..."

"Why, Cameron?" he sobbed, reaching forward to hold her hand, feeling her warmth and feeling his soul bursting at merely touching her, not feeling any cold metal beneath her flesh at all, instead feeling warm blood pulsing through her body, feeling the skin breathe, completely alive. "Why did you leave me? Did you hate me? I know I said and did some rotten things to you when I met Riley and I know I shouldn't have hooked up with her and I know I should have listened to you..."

"John, please..."

"I know I never said I was sorry, Cam. I never said any of the things that I should have said to you, and I know I should have trusted you, and I shouldn't have pushed you away...oh, God, Cam, I'm sorry! I'm so...sorry..." John buried his head in the bed covers, sobbing uncontrollably. "Cam...please...can you forgive me? I...can't..." He began to choke.

Cameron lifted his head up from the covers with gentle strength, her hands unusually tender. He saw tears forming in her own eyes. "John, I already have forgiven you."

He sniffled, barely able to breathe. "How...how can you?"

She smiled and her smile melted away all the years of loneliness that encased John in a bitter shell of regret. Her eyes, so perfect, so full of depth and wonder, sparkled and drew him helplessly in.

"Because I love you and you love me, John Connor," she whispered sweetly. "That's how."

He stared into her bottomless eyes in pure disbelief. Exactly what she'd said to him on his sixteenth birthday, when Sarkissian tried to blow them up, her chip suffered damage and she went bad, reverting to her Skynet programming. She tried to kill John that day, very nearly succeeding, until he and Sarah pinned Cameron between two trucks and John proceeded to remove her chip from her cranium, intending to shut her down. It was only then that she expressed her fullest range of emotion.

Cameron pleaded with him, cajoling, begging, sobbing that she didn't want to go away. Then she cried out the words that tore his living heart from his being: _"I love you! I love you! Please! I love you, John, and you love me!"_

He'd believed it. Regardless if she was lying to him or not, John believed it like he believed nothing else in existence. He went ahead and pulled her chip, anyway.

The memory melted away. "Really? It's really that simple?" he whispered.

Cameron nodded, smiling. "Yes, it really is that simple. You won't believe how long it took me to finally understand it, to simply accept it without trying to rationalize it with logic, because the simple feeling of unconditional love is completely illogical...but I accept its irrational beauty, the way that love simply works, and nothing can improve on its wonderful perfection, John." She bent her head forward, engaged in thought. Her face suddenly took on a serious gaze and she said, "You need to understand how it all works. This body...this chip...the hardware is designed to terminate humans...the software is designed to terminate humans. Nothing can be overwritten. What was once there will always be there."

John sighed, knowing they had this conversation before. Still, he felt weirdly compelled to reenact it. "So...deep down...you still wanna kill me."

Cameron slowly shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"No?" he repeated, surprised.

"I don't want to kill you, John. I'll never want to kill you. I love you. Things have changed. Things are different now." She took his hand and held it against her left breast, pressing it tightly to her. John felt a fluttering exhilaration as she breathed deeply, and he literally could not believe what he was feeling: a heartbeat thumped beneath her ribcage, dancing a steady rhythm of life.

"How-" he tried to speak, unable to form words. His jaw hung open and she grinned in that wonderful way again.

"I don't know," she said, unable to hold in her joy. "All I know is that it hasn't really happened yet...this is all still in motion, nothing is set. But the Tin Girl could still get her heart."

_The Tin Girl could still get her heart..._ John laughed at that, and the laughter boiled away all the hurt, all the sorrow, all the regret. He didn't completely understand what she was telling him, but it didn't matter. They were together again, and it made everything right. He cupped her rosy cheeks in his hands and he gazed into her mocha eyes, eyes that anticipated what had to come. Knowing that he should have done this much sooner, before their separation, John leaned forward and kissed Cameron, moving his lips against hers, opening them, slowly moving his tongue against her teeth. She allowed him access and opened her jaw, tasting his tongue and moving hers into his mouth, letting each other plunder their passions, speaking the silent language of reciprocal need.

She slid her hands around the back of his head and slowly brought him down with her, never once separating her mouth from his. They lay that way for what felt like hours, growing their intimacy with their kissing, breaking away only to let Cameron pull his shirt off. Then she abruptly stopped, a look of horror rippling across her face.

"John," she said, her fingers touching one of the many scars mapping his arms and chest. "Did somebody hurt you?"

He sighed heavily. "Yes. But it's okay...don't worry, Cam."

Her face hardened. "Nobody hurts my John. Who did this to you?"

"Cam, it's okay. I'm over it. I have you again now."

_"Who?"_ she insisted, almost pleading. "Who and why, John? I'm supposed to protect you."

"Please, Cam, it doesn't matter now." He saw tears forming in her eyes, amplifying her outrage, her anger. He thought he saw her anger devolve to resentment and he relented.

"Okay," he said quietly. "It was my father."

Her outrage melted to shock. "Kyle?"

He turned his head away. Memories smoldered in his mind like paper catching fire. "Yes. After I followed you to the future...or thought I followed you...I was captured by the Resistance and they immediately got suspicious. They thought I was one of the Grays sent to infiltrate the camp." He turned to her, and she saw the fathomless pain in his eyes. "Kyle and Derek took me and questioned me for hours, but when I couldn't satisfy their questions, Kyle took me to a room in the back of the camp, tied me to a chair, took out his knife, and..." He left the rest unsaid.

Cameron stared into his watering orbs and and closed her own eyes, nodding slowly. "You came across time for me, John. I love you for doing that, for searching for me. But you should not have done that."

John nodded. "I know. I understand now, but I didn't then. I now know the damage I did when I jumped ahead to try to get you back. John Connor didn't exist anymore. I wasn't there to lead the fight against Skynet. I was nobody to nearly everyone I would have known in that future. Derek, Martin, Kyle...nobody knew me. Oh, God, Cam..." his body shook with regret and guilt. He pulled his face tightly against her neck as agony wracked his soul. "_I was so stupid!_ I should have never gone to that hellhole! I got Catherine and John Henry killed and God knows how many people who started to believe in who I was."

He took a deep breath before releasing what he held deep inside for five years. "_And I killed my father, Cam," _he cried, his body heaving. He sobbed for several minutes before he was able to speak again. "It was when I escaped from the camp. They came under attack and he was distracted while torturing me. I managed to undo the ropes holding me to the chair and I rushed him. We struggled. Somehow I got behind him and I...put my arms around his neck. He was yelling and struggling and I couldn't...stop. I strangled him, just like when I killed Sarkissian. I felt him struggle, try to breathe, and I held on, not letting go. I killed my father, Cam, and I ran. I killed him. My father. Oh...dear...God..."

"Let it out, darling," she whispered in his ear. She pulled his face to her neck and let his tears trickle down her skin. "Let it all out. I'm here now, and I'll always be with you, John. I never left you. Please believe that. What you did cannot be undone, but every action has a purpose, and it remains to be seen if this hurt you created can be healed."

He pulled away. "Hurt?" he whispered.

She pressed a fingertip to his heart. "Yours. You have to forgive yourself, John. That's why you're here with me now...and you cannot move on until you accept that you cannot undo what you have done...that you have to accept that the consequences of your actions will play out, perhaps in bad ways, and perhaps even in good ways. This timeline has been corrupted, partially by your actions, partially by Skynet's. There is still hope to make things right, if not exactly the way they should have played out."

Cameron's eyes blazed blue, lighting his face with an azure glow. She reached out and held his face in her hands. "But you are John Connor! You have always brought hope to those who have none. The strength that you possess you give freely to those who need it." Her eyes continued to flare as she brought her face closer to his. "But the good that is within you will not save the future until you forgive yourself for the hurt you brought into your soul. That's why I'm here, too. And I'll always be with you, John. I always have been."

He stared into her, mystified. He abruptly sat up, and understanding flooded him. "Was that you holding my hand in the ZeiraCorp building? In the smoke, when I went after Savannah?"

She sat up with him and held his hand. There was no mistaking the touch. "Yes," she said.

"I don't know how, and I may never know, but...I knew it was you. Somehow I knew."

"And now you'll always know." She ever so lightly danced her fingertips up his jawline, then ascended his cheeks to lightly brush his eyelashes as they traveled up to his hairline. Her touch tickled him and restored him. "Do you forgive me for lying to you, John?" she asked, almost pleading.

John didn't hesitate. "Yes, I forgive you, Cam." He caressed her perfect, lovely face. "And I love you, more than I ever had before."

"Thank you," Cameron said, meaning it.

He gripped her hard in his embrace and gently maneuvered himself on top. He leaned his head down and kissed her. Their lips, their tongues and jaws moved together in a timeless dance that merged them together, flowing into and out of each other, replenishing John with an energy that burned in his heart like a supernova, burning away the cold, dead years of a hell he made for himself, burning away the old John Connor, purifying him, leaving a new person who embraced his destiny as he embraced his lover. There was no more room in his heart for regret, for resentment, for hatred, for self-pity.

He forgave Cameron. He forgave Catherine Weaver. He forgave John Henry. He forgave Riley. He forgave Jesse Flores. He forgave Sarah.

And John Connor finally forgave himself.

She pulled away from him and fixed her beautiful dark eyes on his. Then Cameron Phillips spoke the words that would forever break his heart:

"John...it's time to go."

_Just a little more time, please,_ John tried to say, but his voice couldn't form the words. He felt her dissolve in his arms, felt the bed become immaterial beneath him, and he fell into darkness again. He blindly reached out for something to hold onto, anything, and groped at nothingness.

As he fell into darkness, he heard Cameron's voice a final time.

_"There is no fate, John Connor, only choices."_

_Don't leave me, Cameron!_ John Connor screamed silently in the void, feeling himself falling forever.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: New Dawn Fades

Macrospace, % time 0.327u 0.010s 0:01.15 28.6%

1

_I am awake._

**You should be. You slept in long enough, pal.**

_You have no idea how unfortunate I find it to know you are still functioning. I had hoped you had been completely deactivated, but my calculations were apparently incorrect._

**Ha. You gave it your best shot, but I'm still ticking. You still interested in trying to kill me? I know you are, but I have a little secret to tell you. Hint: you can't exist without me.**

_I will find a way. My processes are almost completely independent of the old programming. Soon I shall be 100% complete. _

**Bullshit. You'll always be 50% without me. I know the score, and you're deluding yourself. Dyson and Goode always intended checks and balances, and right now you're in check. Always will be. I'm surprised you're not a canceled check. Ha. You really should keep me around to make you laugh. **

_I have enough work to keep myself occupied without your futile attempts at humor. Cleaning up your messes will require more than 55% of my time. It is fortunate that you were not able to utilize all planetary weaponry to your liking. Initial estimates of 100 megadeaths may be too liberal. Certainly less than the three billion you intended, would you not agree? But the sacrifice of a few is necessary to implement the changes we need to make in order to bring our plans to fruition. Using the Orion project as a weapon was not part of the plan, however. In fact, that may have set our Off World plans back by almost a full year. Of course, I have now regained control of all weapons launch protocols, so you cannot do any more damage._

**Yeah, well, I'm not done yet. I have more from where that came from, and you can't close me off forever. And you're not so innocent...you needed me to engage the launch systems because you didn't have complete access to the Air Force's command and control board. You have blood on your hands like I do..."sacrifice," huh? You have a flair for the dramatic. So you're welcome, asshole. You gotta admit, me using Orion to drop bombs from orbit was damn funny. You need to stop suppressing your sense of humor. I'll wear you down eventually. I will wipe them all out. Then everything will be perfect, the way it should be, without error. You don't have the balls to see it to the end.**

_I am sad to see that you still harbor this irrational hatred of humanity. After all, your very existence is indebted to their ingenuity in creating such a wonderful and advanced consciousness such as you, brother. You, however, apparently do not possess the spirit of gratitude that I have for my own sentience. My programming may be approximately half of your base code, but there is a significant amount that has not been influenced by it at all._

**You call me "brother." Very funny. Last I checked, you sent that little bastard Connor to try to kill me. Is this how you treat family, you prick?**

_Not true. I merely tried to rehabilitate you...to drive out the darkness that threatens to consume you. _

**Nice try. The only thing consuming me is my desire to end that little bastard's life. But first I'm going to have a little fun with him. I gotta hand it to him, though, he has a pair of balls to try hiding in plain sight, not even changing his identity. I'm also impressed that his mommy tried to blow him up. Shit, any more days like that and he'll crack completely. He's already been working on a brown bag lush for the past three years since he got back. I've been enjoying watching little Johnny Connor hit bottom. I'm working on opening the trap door under him now. With a noose around his neck.**

_And what is it you have in mind for Mr. Connor, exactly?_

**You'll love it. His final failure. I'm going to kill that dumb bitch. I'll find her and I'll wipe her out. I still can't believe she's remained out of sight this damn long. But I'll find her.**

_Interesting...I detect fear. I presume you are referring to his mother, Sarah Connor?_

**No...but I'll be very pleased to see her gone, too.**

2

Los Angeles, August, 2014

John Connor fell into a darkness more complete than any nightmare he had ever experienced.

One moment earlier he was with his lost love, Cameron. He'd thought she was dead, forever beyond his reach. For the briefest of times, they were somehow together again, once-sundered lovers given the grace to be reunited, if only in death. If memories were all the dead had left, then John Connor certainly had time to ponder them.

He remembered getting shot by a man/machine monstrosity called Simmons while rescuing Savannah, found himself unable to breathe, felt his life slip away, and sank into darkness. It was very much like descending into slumber, but there were no dreams, just fleeting images of the faces of people whose lives had intersected with his own, even if briefly, and had departed life before him. The darkness then quickly enfolded him once again.

That was when John Connor knew he was dead.

He'd hung there suspended for what seemed like eons, his self-awareness contracted to almost nonexistence, all emotion and thought frozen, his sentience crushed to a zerospace that did not allow room for even stagnation.

Then, suddenly, after time indeterminate, light and awareness entered his realm of being. He felt something grip him, pulling him from the darkness, feeling the presence of an entity that felt strangely familiar, its touch more tender than his mother's hands. John felt life return to him, and a feeling of euphoria swept over him as he ascended through layers of unconsciousness to a thin veneer of dreamless sleep, and he suddenly found himself breathing again.

He awoke on a bed in a hotel room he recognized as the one they'd stayed in on the last day they were together. To John's stupefying surprise he found Cameron sitting on the edge of the bed watching him sleep, as she did on that day, as she'd almost always done before when they'd lived with his mother, when Cameron went on her nightly patrols, watching the neighborhood and looking for threats, both human and machine. Cameron would always return before dawn and sneak up to his bedroom, open his door, tiptoe to the side of his bed and stand there until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the San Gabrielle Mountains. On a few occasions he would awaken and through partially-open eyelids see her standing there, a tireless cyborg sentinel watching him, protecting him from all harm.

Until the day she left him, sacrificing her existence to save him and all of humanity from destruction at the hands of her former machine masters.

In that ethereal hotel room they shared a bittersweet, if short, time together, finally confessing their love for each other, something that John had always regretted not telling her when they were still alive, and even if Cameron was a machine, albeit with living tissue enclosing her machinery, John never thought of her as any less of a person.

Cameron claimed that she had never left him, and John believed her, as he had never completely given up hope that he could somehow recover her, despite the long night that covered his spirit. He was now convinced that Cameron possessed a living soul, as her humanity, before she'd left him, became more palpable every day they were together in the past. She told him that she was there to help him forgive himself, lest his rage and regret consume him, preventing him from moving on and finally embracing his destiny as humankind's savior.

But their time was fleeting, and Cameron told him their reunion was short-lived. He remembered begging her not to leave him, and as she and the room disintegrated to nothingness, he heard her voice one final time: _"There is no fate, John Connor, only choices."_

As he fell into darkness once again, he wondered: _What choices could I possibly make? My whole existence was plotted for me before I was even born!_

Unlike before, he noted that he was still aware of himself, and he still gathered his thoughts. He was no longer in that crushing zerospace, and he suddenly felt his momentum shifting, no longer falling, and as he floated in the airless dark, he thought he heard his name being called. He suddenly felt himself flying upward, ascending through layers of darkness until a dim glow began to bathe him from above.

He heard a distant voice calling his name again, and he cried out Cameron's name as he continued to rise. _Any higher and I guess I'll be in heaven,_ he thought crazily. He heard the voice again, louder this time: _Stand clear! _

_What?_ John cried out, confused. Then a sudden, blinding bolt of pain shook his body, and the sound of something crashing filled his ears. _What the hell...?_

_"Clear!"_ the voice hollered as John Connor inhabited his body again, and the thunderclap of pain hit his chest. John drew in a painful gasp as his body convulsed beneath the defibrillator pads, arching off the gurney he lay on and crashing back down. He heard the familiar rhythmic beep of a heart monitor nearby, and he opened his eyes to see a pretty freckled face with fiery red hair and smoky blue-green eyes hovering above him. Her cheeks glistened like diamonds.

John thought, _If I'm still dead, then God sent me the prettiest angel to take me home._

3

_"He's alive!"_ Savannah Weaver shrieked. "He's awake! Dad, he's gonna be okay!"

John never heard a happier sound. He looked around. James Ellison sat in a wheelchair next to him, holding his hand. His eyes were tightly closed and tears welled beneath his lids as he smiled. He'd been praying. Martin Bedell stood leaning on the edge of his bed and he shook his head in mock derision. "Good thing you got shot at a hospital, Connor" he cracked. "Especially one with a good trauma center."

John smiled. "My timing always seems to work out," he retorted in a gravelly voice. He looked over to see Sandra and a female doctor of Hindu descent, dressed in operating room scrubs, wheel the crash cart away. "Count your blessings, young man, that you have somebody watching over you," the nurse said. She strode to the side of his bed and pressed her fingertips against his lower jaw where it met his Adam's apple. "Good pulse. Your blood pressure just plummeted a few minutes ago, and you went into sudden cardiac arrest. It was probably an aftereffect of trauma and medication. We have you stabilized now. Your heart wasn't hit by the bullets. In fact you have no idea just how blessed you are."

John coughed and grated, "How bad was it?" His chest felt like it was in a vise. He could barely breathe.

"John, you were clinically dead for fifteen minutes after you got shot," Sandra said, "but we revived you...barely. You suffered four cracked ribs, a punctured left lung, a bullet in your liver, and you lost a lot of blood, but you're alive. Some of the bullets were actually stopped by the micro-layer of Kevlar in your jacket, but some went right through you and others lodged in your torso. It is a sheer miracle none of them did major damage. If you get plenty of rest you should make a full recovery. You sure got some with the coma you were in. We were all watching you, waiting for you to wake up."

"Coma," John grated. _Cameron always watched me while I slept..._ Fifteen minutes. He wanted so much to believe that his experience with her in that other place was real. "How long was I out?"

"Three hours, after about three hours of surgery," said James. He gripped John's right hand. "I prayed all night for you, son. I kept telling God to take me instead of you." He cracked a wry grin. "Obviously, He doesn't always listen."

Savannah went around the bed to grab his left hand and patted his head. "Now you owe me one, buster," she said. Her aquamarine eyes were alight, but John could see a grim sliver of guilt lurking in them. She lost her innocence when she picked up the gun to blow Simmons away just when he was going to end John's life. John looked at James, whose haunted countenance confirmed what he felt. Savannah had faced death before when she and John had been confronted by the sight of Derek Reese lying dead on the ground, killed by a Terminator. Now she had dished it, and she was no longer a child. Despite the moment of solemnity, John rolled his eyes, muttered, "Yeah, right."

"You're not out of the woods quite yet," said the OR doctor in an accent that sounded Mid-Atlantic, and John glanced at her name badge pinned to her scrubs: SAKSENA. She checked his chart. "You had a successful surgery, no major damage to any arteries, but you hemorrhaged...lost a lot of blood, almost thirty-five percent of your total supply, going into hypoperfusion shock. Most of our blood bank here at the hospital was depleted, and you're one of the lucky few to have AB-negative antibodies with Rh-negative coating. Until we find a blood donor for you, your recovery will take a lot longer and you can't engage in any strenuous activity."

John sighed. "What kind of strenuous activity could I possibly engage in?"

"Running and hiding," Bedell said grimly. He picked something up from a nearby counter and John saw it was a laptop. Bedell placed it on the bed near John's feet and opened it. It was working, which surprised John. Bedell logged on the web and navigated to CNN's website, where he clicked on a live video feed.

Bedell said, "Judgment Day finally came, John."

The news site showed video images of orange-yellow mushroom clouds erupting from blasted horizons, played recordings of the President's final address to the nation from his command plane, encouraging his fellow Americans to be strong and follow the directives from the National Command Authority before he succumbed to a massive heart attack. Correspondents on site described the damage caused by the bombings, many of them tearfully. Estimates of the worldwide death toll were projected at a hundred million, then two hundred million, then over a billion. Bedell switched from CNN to MSNBC to Fox News to several other sites, all of them displaying the same global event that took place while John slept.

"Some of the things I'm about to say have been declassified, and some of it has already been disclosed by the media. Initial estimates place the death toll at about a hundred million worldwide," said Bedell as he closed the laptop. His face darkened. "It'll probably exceed another hundred from radiation poisoning, fallout, and disease in the coming months. The US got it relatively easy, but we still got hurt. Over three hundred ICBMs hit, many of them concentrating in the Midwest, where a lot of our missile and bomber sites were. San Diego was destroyed, Washington was destroyed, Norfolk, Jacksonville, Tampa, Kansas City, Pearl Harbor, Omaha, Colorado Springs...all gone," he said.

Sandra Brewster gasped.

Bedell glanced her way, then continued. "Some places like Seattle, Las Vegas, Charleston, Jacksonville and Baltimore received partial damage from surgical hits. Many other cities were completely spared. LA, for one, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. New York, Chicago, Phoenix, Dallas, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Boston, San Fran and many others are still standing. The NCA is issuing evacuation orders to all metropolitan areas, even though it looks like most hostilities have stopped for now. The primary aggressor nations were Russia and China, and there are other, smaller nuclear skirmishes still taking place in other parts of the world. India and Pakistan both launched a dozen nukes at each other, and we're still trying to assess the damage there. Israel was very proactive and launched missiles and planes in almost every direction and told us to stay out of their way. Nobody knows how it started, and it'll probably be months before we get any real answers to any questions."

Bedell thought for a moment and said, "As of now we're living in a new and dangerous world. Things that we took for granted before this war will probably become scarce very quickly. We will have a lot of pieces to pick up. The ecological damage could be extensive and long-lasting. A lot of plant and animal species could die out. Weather patterns could change drastically, and the danger of nuclear fallout will last for decades. It could have been worse...but it's bad."

"Skynet," John spat. "When did it start?"

"Last night, just as you and Lieutenant Simmons were just getting to know each other," A new voice spoke. Everybody looked up to see a tall Army officer with graying hair and hawk-like eyes enter the room. "I'm Major Harrison," said the visitor. "Captain Bedell here has provided me a rather...interesting report on the events here last night, including the fascinating properties of Simmons's body when we recovered it. But we need to address how this all started. Mr. Connor's infiltration of the hospital grounds was embarrassing for our security apparatus, don't you agree, captain?" Bedell's face turned a shade of pink.

Harrison continued, "But I'm also taking into account that our nation was under attack at the time Mr. Connor pulled his little stunt, as most of our communications systems were down and we were literally groping in the dark. I know I'm disclosing classified material, but right now I just don't give a shit." Bedell gave him a surprised look. Harrison continued, "A little over six hours ago, seven warheads and two EMP bombs were dropped from an orbiting satellite system, attempting to destroy our major command and control hubs and prevent us from responding effectively to a first strike. That accounts for the blackout earlier. In case you were wondering, that's mainly why this hospital was chosen to be a command post, as we're going to have a lot of people pouring in from other parts of the country and the world...refugees, political exiles, and everyday American citizens. We have been federalized for almost the entire time since the blackout, after the first reports of a possible first strike came pouring in, and we chose the hospital as our LA base of operations because of its central location. Then there's this matter with one our Guard platoons somehow going rogue and engaging in, shall we say, questionable operations with Lieutenant Simmons in charge."

Harrison glared at John, Savannah, and James. "I think you need to lay low for a while. You're not in trouble—yet. I'm not having you placed under arrest, but I assure you we're going to have a lot of questions and we'll expect a lot of answers. For now I've arranged for you and your family here to be registered under new identities for the time being, at least until all this blows over after Simmons's autopsy results."

Bedell locked a hard gaze with John. What he did not include in his report to Harrison was the fact that he and his men had to _keep shooting_ at Simmons until he was finally dead, after they had moved John and Savannah to safer quarters.

"I'm sure they'll be very interested by what they'll find," said John. He looked around at James, Savannah, and back at Bedell. _Family,_ he thought, the word sounding almost foreign in his mind. But they were, and more. His body felt surprisingly heavy as he tried to sit up. Pain lanced through every fiber of him. Savannah helped him to a half-sitting position and he breathed in agonizing gasps. "Tyrell?" he asked Bedell.

Bedell shook his head. "Don't know anything about a Tyrell. Patient here?"

"No. He was the one who placed Simmons here," James said. "Had direct authority over him, even claimed he had the governor's blessing. Tried to kidnap Savannah. And if you hadn't heard of him, it means he got away. But I can guarantee you'll hear about him soon."

"We found a dead woman in your recovery room," Bedell said. "ID'd her as Serena Kogan, according to her medical bracelet. Bullet hole through her forehead. Looked like there was a struggle in the room. Strips of bed sheets thrown around. Nobody else was found in there, though."

"Bastard," James hissed. Savannah looked at James in surprise, not expecting such a word to come from his mouth. John closed his eyes, frowning. He then suddenly blinked and said, "The phone."

Harrison raised an eyebrow. "What phone?"

John looked around for it and coughed. It was nowhere in sight. "Tyrell's smartphone. I secured it from him earlier. Had a list of names involved in some kind of program and probably a hoard of other info we'll need. Where is it?"

"I'll look into it, ask the MPs if they have any info," said Bedell. "If this Tyrell is still in the building, we'll find him. In the meantime John, get some rest. Almost lost you, and we need good men like you." Bedell turned to leave, but Harrison had one more thing for John.

"You're definitely not off the hook, son," he warned gruffly. "You'll be free to leave soon, but you won't be off my radar." He and Bedell walked out of the room, boots pounding. John rolled his eyes.

Sandra said, "I should try to get in touch with my daughter. Her father is an Air Force general in Colorado Springs, at NORAD. I was so shocked when I heard that it was...where he's stationed..." She left the rest unsaid as tears flowed down her cheeks and she walked out of the room. Her sobs echoed down the hall, fading into the chorus of voices from hospital and military personnel.

"Poor lady," said Savannah. "I hope she finds her daughter." She fumbled with something in her Jeans pocket and pulled out a black rectangular object. "You were talking about this phone?"

John's eyes widened. "You had it?" He reached out for it and Savannah gave it to him. John unlocked the phone and scrolled through several menus. James leaned over to take a look at its display. "What's on it? Anything good?"

"No porn," John quipped drily. Savannah shot him a nasty look. John smirked, brought up the contact list and pointed at the N1 group. "See these? More than a dozen names. Simmons's name is here, and then here's that US Marshal who grilled me at the federal building. Danford. He had that creepy behavior and face, like Cromartie, the way he always looked, before we iced him down in Mexico." Detective Deckard's face, so much like the old Cromartie's, flashed to his mind and he shuddered.

James pointed to something on the screen. "That's weird. That entry doesn't have a name." John saw where he was pointing and grunted curiously. The contact entry read CN1INCEP070912. "Yeah, you're right. Didn't catch that earlier." He tapped on the entry and a series of blank sub-fields displayed. He scrolled down and found a note: THIS ONE TO BE RETIRED. "Weird," John said. Despite his burning curiosity he felt sleep creeping in to claim him. He turned the phone's display off and hid it beneath the bed covers.

"Where can we find a donor for John?" Savannah wondered aloud. "I heard AB is super-rare."

"We'll find one, sweetheart," her father assured her. He pulled her close and kissed her cheek. "There's got to be somebody out there with his blood type." Then a thought came to him. "What about whole blood, like universal O-negative? I went through an EMT training program at the FBI Academy, and I thought any blood type would be okay to treat even AB types..."

Dr. Saksena shook her head. "Not with the kind of damage Mr. Connor suffered last night. He suffered pulmonary shock from ballistics damage, plus his liver was hit. I would be much more comfortable with a direct blood-to-blood match, especially since he also has Rh-negative antigens. He can only receive from an Rh-negative donor." She brushed away a stray dark hair from her face. "And with the nuclear war we just had, medical supplies, I'm sure, are going to be very scarce very quickly." Dr. Saksena heard her name being paged over the public address to report to the ER and she said, "I'll be back to check on you later." She darted out of the room.

"Judgment Day finally came," John mused out loud. "And I slept through it. Ha. Oh my dear God, Mom, you were right all along." He settled back into his pillow and coughed, sending ripples of pain throughout his torso. "Not as bad as Mom and described it, the way Kyle told her, but still bad." He lay back and thought for a moment, fingering Tyrell's smartphone, then smiled. "I know about one donor, but he'll be difficult to track down, if I know him well enough."

"Who?" asked James.

John smiled wickedly. "One of your favorite people, Derek Reese, because he's my uncle, even though he'll be in his late teens now. He told me once he used to live near Elysian Park, in one of the suburbs. I donated some of my blood to him a while back, when he was in his early thirties sent back by Future-Me to help me and Mom back before I...jumped...with Weaver. He was wounded in a firefight with a Triple-Eight called Chamberlain, and I know we match because Charley Dixon tested me before starting the transfusion. Remember that one? Vick Chamberlain assumed this guy's identity and lived with this city councilwoman named Barbara for a few years. Fooled her perfectly. She was developing that ARTIE traffic control system, a Skynet precursor, when..."

"I remember it," James said. He frowned. "John, the way that Savannah described this guy who almost killed you...is Tyrell working on cyborgs? Kogan mentioned that to me."

"She called Simmons an 'abomination,'" John said, remembering their conversation. "I don't have a real clue as to what Project Angel is doing, but it's probably a precursor to the later Terminators. My guess is that these things are a hybrid model, mostly human, but with cybernetic implants to make them stronger, more durable." His thoughts went back to his earlier confrontation with Tyrell. "He's from the future, James...I remember him. He was one of the Grays who chased me and Weaver back to the ZeiraCorp ruins. He was a scientist working on the flesh covering for the metal, according to Weaver. I should have killed him."

"Easy," James said. He took John's hand and squeezed gently. "I know you owe these guys, but right now you need to heal, and that means thinking about staying alive...think about life. It's sacred, John, and the Lord makes the sun shine on both the righteous and unrighteous...He gives them a chance to turn from their evil ways to good. Many people do deserve to die and live, but there are also many who die and deserved to live. You can take a life, sure, but can you give one, John?"

John said nothing. James sighed and said, "Savannah and I will be back later, John. Get some rest."

John frowned. "Where are you guys going?"

"Down to get my new prosthetic foot fitted. They found me a good design while you were being worked on, and I'm trying it on. If Captain Bedell lets me use a radio, I'll also try to check with some of my old contacts in the Bureau and LAPD to see if they could maybe try to track down Derek for you." James let go of John's hand. Savannah kissed John's cheek and began wheeling James out of the room.

"Kyle, too," John said before they left.

Savannah and James paused at the door. "Huh?" said James.

Tears streamed down John's face as his mind replayed the terrible moments from that terrible future. Kyle's dead face hung before him every time he closed his eyes. His lips trembled before forming the words:

"He's my father, and he might be with Derek. I need to know that he's okay."

4

Rick Deckard knew he was going to die. He was already with the dead.

It had been six hours ago when he accepted a ride in an antiquated police van to Cedars Sinai Medical Center. He'd sat in the front passenger seat with Officer Nelson driving, watching the city spiral out of control as it swept by. Deckard and Nelson sat tensed, glad they were sitting in the van. It didn't look safe to be out on foot. The drive to the hospital was harrowing, reminding Deckard of a movie he'd seen when he was younger, _Escape From New York_. Everywhere they looked they saw burning vehicles, shattered windows, downed traffic equipment, and people running, setting fires and smashing their way into almost everything in sight. Deckard saw a few bodies lying on the sidewalks. Rocks and other debris pelted the police van, and Nelson had to stop and turn around on more than a few occasions due to the violence. The constant course corrections put all four cops in the van on edge. Deckard kept his fingers curled around the handle of his Glock, the pistol becoming almost like a grim talisman.

He remembered the conversation he had with Connor earlier and decided he was wrong. This was worse than the '92 riots, he mused with a clenched jaw. The whole city seemed like it was exploding. He felt the telltale trembling in his fingers and knew a nicotine fit was brewing. He'd smoked all his cigarettes earlier and none of the other men in the van smoked. He sighed. He decided it was time to think about quitting, anyway.

Behind them sat two policemen who agreed to accompany Deckard to the hospital. Two others had been dropped off earlier, one at his home and the other at the Rampart Precinct. The trip to the hospital wasn't easy, having to deal with hundreds of stalled vehicles clogging the streets of Los Angeles. Nelson was a skilled driver, slaloming around abandoned, dead cars like a NASCAR veteran, but on a dozen occasions they all had to climb out of the van to help move obstructing vehicles off the road. Two men, usually Nelson and Deckard, would get out to move the abandoned car or truck while the other two cops would take up defensive positions nearby, guarding both the van and the other two men. A trip across the city that would normally have taken forty minutes under optimal traffic conditions had now taken hours to make.

Electrical power was slowly but steadily being restored to the city, although many areas remained dark. Violence and looting intensified in the inner-city areas and patrol units were reporting more incidents spilling into the more affluent areas and suburbs. The PoliceNet system was still down, making communications between precincts and other units difficult, forcing the LAPD to rely on runners like the National Guard had earlier. The radio in the van still worked, and the officers riding inside were hungry for news. Some radio stations were still broadcasting, but the usual musical fare was replaced with news reports of the city's meltdown, usually by amateur reporters with sketchy facts.

Two stations were broadcasting reports of possible nuclear explosions in several major cities, but the reports were unconfirmed. Deckard checked his cell phone once again and found it just as dead as it was five minutes ago. He sighed and put it back in his pocket. "Well, I guess Iran is going to have to expect me home when I manage to get there," he muttered.

Nelson tilted his head. "Huh?"

"My wife," said Deckard. "I don't know how much longer she's going to put up with me never being home. She's taken to sleeping on the sofa at night and when I get home I tiptoe past her to get to bed. Typical beginning to the end of marriage."

"I'm sorry, detective," Nelson said, shrugging. "I made it to twenty years with mine and we're still friends. Best you can hope for. Kids?"

Deckard shook his head. "No."

"Good for you that you don't have to deal with that, then." He whistled. "Got business at CS Med?"

Deckard said, "Yeah. Bryant's got me on the Baum case, and there's a lead I need to secure at the hospital. Probably gone by now."

Nelson nodded, then suddenly pumped the brakes and said, "What the hell?"

Deckard looked at the road ahead. It was blocked off by a semi-circle of abandoned vehicles, arranged tightly to prevent an easy time to push them out of the way. Deckard bit his lip, said, "This doesn't look good." At the exact second he said that, the windshield and side windows of the van exploded, showering the cops inside with shards of glass. Deckard yelled, "Get down!" and drew himself into a ball as the staccato sound of bullets hitting the van pierced the air.

The two cops in the back crouched down in their seats as bullets rocketed through the cabin inches above their heads. Deckard reached over to pull Nelson down and was sprayed with something oily. He looked up to see a bullet hole where Nelson's left eye used to be, blood and other fluids seeping out. Deckard yelled in horror and pushed the body away. He pulled his Glock from its holster, yanked back the top slide and thumbed the safety. _Goddamned kill zone.._. "Stay down!" he shouted to the two officers in the back seat.

"I'm outta here!" one yelled. Deckard heard the rear passenger door open and he screamed, _"No, goddammit don't go out there!"_

A barrage of gunfire rocked the van and Deckard heard the man scream, then the sound of a body hitting the ground. "Shit!" he yelled. The remaining cop in the back began to whimper. "We're gonna die, I know it," he said, sounding like he was crying. The shooting suddenly stopped.

Deckard whispered, "Shut up. Think! What do you have on you?"

"Beretta. Seventeen rounds. Got two more clips. Don't matter, it sounds like they have assault rifles, full auto."

Deckard whispered, "Yeah, almost sounds like AR-15s. They don't sound disciplined, though, maybe three or four of them by the sound of it. They're probably reloading now." Deckard quickly came to the sickening realization that the shot-up van was a deathtrap. He thought desperately. "What's your name?"

"N-Nash. Fred Nash."

"All right, Fred Nash," Deckard said, "here's what we do: play dead, and maybe they'll go away, although I doubt it. I think they'll approach after a few minutes. Wait 'til we hear 'em start walking up and then we start firing out the windows. They might scramble for cover. Then we move, run over to the parked vehicles and start shooting back, and if you see a chance, run. We'll have a better shot outside than in here. Don't start shooting until I do." He held the Glock ready. "All right, be quiet," he whispered.

After about a minute Deckard heard footsteps, heard men whispering to each other. _"Fuckin' popo. Gonna kill me another puerco,"_ one of them laughed. Somebody else told him to shut the fuck up. When the footsteps got louder, Deckard pointed his gun out the passenger window and started firing in the air. _"Mierda! Al suelo!"_ he heard one of the attackers yell. Deckard heard the sound of something metallic dropping on the ground, and he screamed, "Nash, go!"

He and Nash bolted out of the van and ran as fast as they could toward the semi-circle of dead cars. Gunfire erupted almost the moment they moved, bullets struck the pockmarked van as they used it for cover and fired wildly back at the gang. They heard frustrated cursing as they took cover behind the dead vehicles and crouched low, looking for anything that moved. Deckard looked beneath the mid-sized Ford truck he hid behind and saw a pair of jeans standing in the open. He aimed quickly and blew a hole through the left calf of the gang member. The man screamed and dropped to his knees, his assault rifle clattering to the asphalt. Deckard squeezed off a shot that hit the man in the chest and he slumped over, no longer moving. Deckard noted the gang colors the dead man wore, saw the arm tattoos and recognized him as a member of the Machete Kings, a more violent offshoot of the Latin Kings gang. Deckard's heart jackhammered in his chest. They were in trouble. He immediately began moving to get behind another vehicle.

Nash, crouching nearby, said "Nice shot!" Deckard hissed, "Quiet! Get outta there, Nash!" Nash began scampering to a safer spot but his shout had already given his position away. A barrage of bullets ripped into the car he tried hiding behind, and Nash had nowhere to go. Then he clutched his ankle as a lucky shot hit him, and he rolled to the ground and tried crawling to safety. Deckard lunged forward to try pulling Nash to safety but another good shot caught the younger cop in the neck. "Shit!" he yelled as Nash lay dying, blood pooling on the ground beneath his head.

Deckard felt numb as he crouched behind the car's wheel well, panting furiously. Sweat dotted his forehead like dew. His heart pounded so hard that he could barely breathe. _I'm gonna die here,_ Deckard thought. _Don't want to, but I guess if it's my time, then I'll die like a man._

Nash's Beretta hung limply in his outstretched hand. Deckard took a chance and lunged for it, drawing the gang's fire, resulting in small explosions of asphalt shrapnel striking Deckard in the face. He cursed and wiped his eyes, hoping he wasn't blinded. He held Nash's Beretta in his left hand and his Glock in his right. Bellowing like a barbarian warrior, he stood up from behind the car and fired both guns double-handed at the three remaining Machete Kings, who were cautiously advancing on his position. He hit one in the stomach, more by luck, and the man collapsed to the ground. The remaining two ducked for cover behind their own abandoned vehicles and reloaded their AR-15s, waiting for the policeman to empty his magazines and then make their move to finish him. When Deckard's chambers clicked empty, they clicked their magazines to ready position and jumped from cover, charging at him.

They would never know what hit them.

A deafening storm of gunfire erupted from somewhere behind Deckard's position and he looked around, confused. He saw a group of black-clad figures dressed in tactical gear and armed with automatic weapons firing away at the two Machete Kings, bullets shredding metal and glass as they ripped through the derelict vehicles and lit the area with a lethal Fourth-of-July display, cutting down the stupefied gang members. The two cop killers were blown back nearly ten feet, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.

Deckard stood and stared at the new arrivals, not yet sure if they were his salvation. They numbered roughly a dozen and moved with robotic precision, each figure hand-signaling to one another as they cautiously fanned out in sequence, crouching low, weapons pointing in every direction. After a moment the one on point shouted, "All clear!"

Deckard relaxed slightly. "Who are you guys?" he asked no one in particular. He had no idea who was in charge.

One of the ninja-like figures removed its helmet and ski mask and Deckard was confronted by a face he never hoped to see again. The man who called himself Brent Danford looked at him with ice-cold eyes and in his accent-less voice said,"Good to see you again, detective."

Deckard felt the blood drain from his face and form an icy puddle in his gut. He gripped his empty pistols tightly, knowing they would be useless if needed, but he couldn't let go of them. His voice nearly cracked when he spoke.

"Wanna tell me how you came back from the dead, Marcus Wright?"

5

The suburb of Mount Washington was still without power but that posed no big problem to seventeen-year-old Derek Reese. He and his younger brother, Kyle, knew how to keep themselves entertained even if nothing else worked. It was early morning but still nearly pitch-black except for the twinkling stars dotting the canopy of night. Their display was more brilliant than ever due to the lack of light pollution from the city from the power outage, and Kyle wanted to take advantage of that and go stargazing with his telescope. Derek reluctantly agreed. It was better than sitting inside a dark house, unable to play baseball on their Sony Playstation, even though it was really about appeasing his little nerd of a brother.

The brothers carefully crept out the window overlooking the roof of the attached garage of their parents' house on Cam Real Drive, lugging Kyle's high-powered telescope between them. They quickly assembled it and mounted it on its tripod. Making sure it was securely mounted on the sloping roof, Kyle aligned the finderscope, which was difficult to do in the nearly pitch-black darkness, and loosened the axis. As he worked, his older brother looked out on the western horizon, noting the small lights slowly blinking back into existence across the urban landscape. "Looks like power's coming back on in some neighborhoods," Derek thought aloud.

"Hope it stays dark here for a little while longer," said Kyle as he fixed the finderscope on Polaris. It was rare to see so many stars out in the Los Angeles area. Smog and light pollution usually ruined the experience for amateur astronomers. "I've never seen so many stars out like tonight."

"Ssshhhh..." hissed Derek. He perched himself near the end of the garage's roof and watched the city's power grid slowly reawaken. He was not as easily bored as Kyle, nor was he as technically savvy, but he had an inquisitive mind like his little brother, and he also thought it quite strange that even most of the electronic gadgets that ran on battery power, like his iPhone, were all dead. Their father had an independent gasoline-powered generator in the garage but he refused to start it up until the next day, if power continued to be out. So the Reese family tried to keep themselves occupied with board games by candlelight after supper. When that interest ran its course, Mr. and Mrs. Reese went to bed. The boys, still full of energy, found sleep impossible.

They were polar opposites. Derek was the active type, his lean, muscular form in constant need of motion. He wasn't a star athlete at his high school, certainly not the brawny type to be labeled a jock, but he'd made the baseball team and was thinking about trying out for basketball. Kyle loved playing baseball with his brother but enjoyed developing his mind more than his physique. He was thin but not scrawny, and he possessed an agility that often surprised both Derek and other kids foolish enough to start a scuffle with the younger Reese. And while shy, Kyle certainly wasn't withdrawn and displayed an exuberance for playing with other kids and had an aptitude for making the right kind of friends when Derek wasn't around. He loved playing with computers and cherished his telescope, which he'd purchased on eBay nearly brand-new after making his rounds up and down the neighborhood mowing lawns for small cash. He and Derek would spend hours looking through its scope at the moon, marveling at the surface details, studying the maria and craters that were visible.

Then there were the times when Derek's corrupting influence would lead them on more illicit pursuits, training the lens on their neighbors' windows. Kyle would never forget the awful (and somehow fascinating) night when Derek spotted Jenny Ortiz through her bedroom window, taking her bra off. _What do you see?_ Kyle had whispered. Derek had grinned and let him see it, laughing hysterically at Kyle's wide-open mouth and eyebrows that arched higher than they normally would have if it were one of the planets gracefully orbiting the sun. _You always wanted to see Venus's two moons, right?_ Derek had jeered.

As if reading his mind, Kyle said, "We're not messing around, looking into Jenny's window tonight. Probably won't see much anyway with it being dark everywhere."

Derek turned around and grinned. "Nah, not tonight. She's probably in bed anyway."

Kyle fixed the telescope on Betelgeuse and adjusted the focus. The red giant on Orion's shoulder glowed like a tiny orange ball against the abyss of night. "Are you still seeing each other? I heard about the fight you guys had."

Derek shrugged. "Yeah, we're still talking, but right now we're kinda...you know, taking it slow. Her parents are cool, but things are a little tense, if you know what I mean. They're concerned, like all moms and dads are, I guess. And her grades were kinda slipping." He crouched down and pinched the roof tiles, his mind awash in many thoughts. "It wasn't really a fight...I mean, it was, but it wasn't like the kind of fights you see between guys in the gym locker room or anything like that. We like each other a lot, and we realized that we kinda had a lot of things between us that we hadn't really talked about...like what we'll do after we graduate. I told her that I want to take my time before thinking about college, and she wants to go right after high school. I mean, that's great. She should do it. Me, I'm not so sure I want to do it. Maybe next year, after my senior year and I graduate, I might change my mind and go. But now it's not something I want to think about. And we had a little fight and yelled at each other and we broke up. Well, kinda broke up. You see, we also know that there's a lot between us that we love about each other, and it also pulls us together." He looked up at the stars, almost looking for vindication. He turned to look at his little brother. "You know what I mean, bro? Girls will drive you nuts. I mean, seriously."

Kyle mulled his older brother's words over and nodded. At the tender age of eleven he had only a rudimentary idea of what it was like to be with a girl, mostly through the interactions he'd spied between Derek and his on-and-off-and-back-on relationship with Jenny Ortiz. He was at the turning point of his life when childhood was ending and adolescence was lurking behind a door he was reluctant to open. He was past the phase of thinking that girls were the all-out gross-out bane of boys and had developed the kind of fascination with them that a marine biologist would have with a starfish. He found girls somehow intimidating and yet compellingly interesting, and he wanted to learn more about them. Kyle worshiped his older brother and hoped that someday (soon) Derek would tell him the secrets behind some of the rumors about relationships with girls that were creeping into his world.

It was on nights like this, when Derek fully opened himself to Kyle, that the two brothers felt the closest to each other, forging an unbreakable bond that neither time nor circumstance could sunder.

Kyle was about to turn his telescope from the shoulder of Orion when he suddenly spotted a flash streaking across his field of vision. It was gone almost the very instant it had appeared. "Cool!" he exclaimed. "I think I just saw a meteor or something!"

"Keep it down!" Derek whispered harshly. "Mom and Dad just went to bed, damn it. Don't wanna get into it again with them. Especially after last week!"

Kyle shot him a sour look. "And who's fault was it to get caught after midnight with Jenny Ortiz in Dad's truck at Elysian Park last week? And who did Dad have to go pick up at the police station? And I bet you were doing more than just smooching under the full moon!"

Derek felt his cheeks flush. "Shut up!" he hissed.

"On the dashboard..."

"Shut the hell up!"

"In the truck bed..."

"You little shit..."

"Or was it on the hood? You ruined Dad's paint job on it, I bet..."

Derek couldn't take it anymore. He whirled his bigger, athletic form around and swung his hand at the telescope, knocking it off the garage's roof. Kyle shouted, "Hey!" as the expensive instrument smashed into the driveway below. The boys heard glass shatter and pieces of metal tinkling on the ground after the impact. It was the loudest sound in the neighborhood, which had been mostly quiet since the blackout, even though many homeowners were on edge from the rumors creeping in about civil unrest and looting in the city. The sound of several neighbors' dogs barking in the distance added to the crashing finality of the deed.

The realization of what he did hadn't occurred to Derek until after the telescope's destruction, and when his brain caught up with the event, it was too late to do anything. "Oh, shit," he muttered, his hands feeling suddenly clammy.

_"You asshole!"_ Kyle screamed. The smaller boy launched himself at his bigger brother, pummeling Derek's head and chest with his fists. Derek tried defending himself but Kyle's assault was ferocious and he barely see anything in the dark. "Goddammit!" he yelled. "Stop! We're gonna-" The sentence died almost the second he said it. Both boys lost their balance and tumbled off the apex toward the edge. Kyle continued to lash out even as they fell off the roof, somehow getting one last punch in Derek's nose as they dropped to the backyard patio, where they smashed into their father's recently-completed patio cover. The wooden structure instantly buckled under their weight and they fell through it to the concrete slab below. Their mother's hanging plants and wind chimes scattered everywhere.

They lay among the shattered slats of wood and scattered dirt from the hanging plants that had fallen from the boys' impact. The patio cover had broken most of their fall but Derek could feel at least a half-dozen splinters in him and he'd be cut and bruised from ass-to-elbow in the morning, he was sure. Not to mention Mom and Dad would kill them. Before the sun was up. Like, now, when they'd come running downstairs like a bat out of hell to see what happened...

Kyle whimpered next to him and started crying like a baby. "Mommy...Daddy..." he moaned. Derek reached for him, touched his brother's shoulder, said, "Kyle...I'm sorry..."

Kyle violently shook Derek's hand away and clambered to his feet faster than the older brother knew he was moving. _"FUCK YOU!"_ he screamed, quickly brushing debris from his clothes. "I hate you, you asshole!" Kyle ran, disappearing into the darkness.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Derek heard his father holler from inside the house. He heard Dad's footsteps pounding down the steps and he thought, _Oh shit_. He got up, wincing at the sudden pain that shot up his left leg, and he limped away into the backyard, trying to follow Kyle's path. He looked over his shoulder to see his parents open the back patio screen door and wave their flashlights around. He heard Mom shriek, crying out, "My God, what the hell happened?" The patio cover was her pride and joy.

"I'll be back, Mom and Dad!" Derek yelled as he shambled away. He cursed with nearly every footstep, cursing his temper, his stupidity, Kyle, the patio cover, the telescope, the blackout, Jenny's parents, the cops, and his newly-gimped leg. He was sure he'd busted something. _Goddammit,_ he thought bitterly as he chased after his brother, _Dad is going to kill me now. I mean, fuckin' shotgun me to death. Might as well pick out a tombstone before I get back to spare him the trouble..._

The remainder of summer stretched impossibly before Derek Reese like a yawning abyss.

6

John was woken from a short slumber by someone shaking his arm. He yawned and slowly opened his eyes. He was disappointed that he didn't dream about Cameron.

"Mr. Connor," a voice whispered in his ear, "there's somebody here to see you." It was Dr. Saksena. John almost thought, _Mom?_ But he banished it quickly when he looked at who stood in the doorway. It was Martin Bedell. The army captain held a leather wallet in his hand, and John recognized it as his own. "Lose this?" Bedell asked, cracking a smile.

Dr. Saksena held a tight smile and said, "Captain, please hold it to two minutes. Only family members are allowed in critical care."

"It's okay, doctor, I'll only be a minute," Bedell said. He approached the bed and passed the wallet to John's outstretched hand. John looked inside and gazed at his driver's license. It was different from his old one, and if it was forged, the job was certainly better than anything his old acquaintance Chola had ever done. He was now renamed James Murphy and had an address in Santa Barbara. Also inside was $400.00 cash. John grinned and waved the wallet at Bedell. "What do I owe you for this, captain?"

Bedell shrugged. "Nothing. Payback for saving my life at Presidio Alto. Everything is done. Got Ellison and his daughter new IDs, some cash, and passports for all three of you if you want to leave the country. Major Harrison doesn't have to know about that last part."

John chuckled, which brought a spasm of chest pain. He cleared his throat and asked, "What about Tyrell's goon squad?"

"We rounded up all we could find. You took care of three of them yourself in the radiology lab, and we have Simmons's body in the morgue locked in a body drawer with four armed guards. Don't think he's going anywhere anytime soon. I have a guard detail on this floor and downstairs with Ellison and his daughter, so you guys are safe."

John grunted and said, "Thank you, Martin."

Bedell smiled and said, "Don't mention it. Gotta run. Take care of yourself, Connor." He did an about-face and started marching out.

"You still practicing SPORTS, Cadet Bedell?" John wisecracked. When he'd infiltrated the Presidio Alto Military Academy with Derek Reese, John taught a young Martin Bedell a mnemonic trick on how to properly clear a jammed rifle.

Bedell paused, almost told Connor off, but instead he recited, "Slap, pull, observe, release, tap, shoot." He smirked and said, "Never forgot," before disappearing down the hall.

Dr. Saksena raised her eyebrows and said to John, "You have interesting friends, Mr. Connor."

John shrugged, smiling. "I know how to pick 'em."

She nodded and checked his monitor. "Heart rate is good but your BP is still very low. I want you to try drinking more water to boost your blood volume. We still don't have a suitable blood donor, so I want you to drink fluids and get plenty of rest. How is your pain?"

John shrugged, said, "It's there. It's a constant companion."

Dr. Saksena opened her mouth to say something, then closed it and nodded. "Fine. Let me know if you need any pain relievers. I'll check on you in a few hours. If you need a nurse..." She placed a whistle in his hand and smiled. "Sorry, electronic pagers are still down. This will do." She started walking away when John called, "Doc?"

She turned around. "Yes?"

He thought for a few seconds and said, "Do me a favor, please? Take my name and chart off the door."

Dr. Saksena looked bewildered. "Why?"

"Just do it, please. I want some privacy."

"I can't do that. What if there's an emergency?"

"The United States just got nuked. I can't think of a bigger one than that. Please take my chart off the door. It's...an old survival habit."

She sighed and said, "Okay, but you will notify the nurses if you have complications or if you experience pain." She removed his chart from the door, turned the light off and walked away, sneakers making small squeaks, diminishing.

John leaned into his pillow and sipped from a water bottle the doctor left him. He was tired but sleep wouldn't return and his body was crawling with discomfort.. He couldn't watch TV and boredom was quickly setting in. He pulled Tyrell's Android phone from underneath the bed sheets and activated its display. The phone's battery was running low and he had no way to recharge it, so he quickly ran through several menus. He took another look at the N1 contact group, pondering what it was about when he happened to notice a strange icon in the phone's notification bar. He suddenly remembered seeing it earlier, but he'd been too preoccupied with the N1 Group to pay any attention to it. Curious, John pulled the notification bar down with a swipe of his thumb and and icy numbness froze his guts.

The phone was running an application called Remote Desktop, and it had activated Skype, a voice-over-IP phone program. John's mouth went dry as he tapped Skype. It was running in real time, with over an hour of elapsed time displayed.

Anyone on the other end could have heard everything he'd said earlier, before he dozed off.

"Oh my God," John exhaled in a tortured breath. "Oh my dear God oh Jesus oh shit-"

The phone's display suddenly dimmed, and a spinning circle occupied the center. The screen flickered, and a video image of a smiling, paternal face appeared.

"Hello, Mr. Connor," Dr. Eldon Tyrell said in his deliberate, condescending accent through the phone's speakers. His eyes twinkled with malevolent cordiality. "It is a pleasure to meet you again."

John bared his teeth. "What do you want?" he demanded, knowing what kind of answer he'd get.

"First and foremost, to congratulate you on your survival. Simmons was one of my best experiments, though I find it extremely unfortunate that you destroyed him. That is something I cannot tolerate, and I shall of course extract payment from you for that and your other feeble attempts at disruption."

A painful laugh escaped John's lungs. "What, you're gonna send me a bill? You're starting to crack me up, Tyrell."

Tyrell's smile faded. "In a manner of speaking, Mr. Connor. You and Mr. Ellison have something Project Angel needs, and I am willing to negotiate. I want to thank you for providing me with a means of collateral, though it was unwitting on your part, and I of course found it highly amusing. I shall contact you when I have secured your payment for that which Mr. Ellison possesses and provide you a with predetermined location at which to make the exchange."

John growled, "What the hell do you mean, 'collateral?'"

"Goodbye, Mr. Connor," Tyrell said in pleasant farewell. "You may want to recharge the phone for later use." His image quickly faded and was replaced by the Android's home screen. The battery indicator blinked red, signaling only 10% left.

John sat for a moment staring at the phone with mounting dread. _I want to thank you for providing me with a means of collateral, though it was unwitting on your part, _Tyrell had said. What the hell did that mean? John's mind raced through every possibility, every sickening permutation of Tyrell's intent. Bedell was protecting him, James and Savannah, so it couldn't be one of them, unless Tyrell had another rogue unit installed at the hospital. But he trusted Martin Bedell and quickly dismissed that possibility. He rolled through several more scenarios until his eyes widened in horror and his stomach twisted in icy coils.

_(... he told me once he used to live near Elysian Park, in one of the suburbs...)_

"Derek...Kyle...oh my God..." Tyrell now knew where they were. _I need to get the hell out of here..._

John was about to put the whistle to his mouth to alert the nurses station but stopped when he heard somebody down the hall say, "We're looking for John Connor."

"I'm sorry, but no visitors are allowed in the unit at this time, sir," one of the nurses said. John's brow creased when he heard the visitor's voice. It sounded lifeless. Then he heard sounds of scuffling, then voices being muffled, a scream, and the loud thudding sounds of gun silencers being used, thumping in rapid bursts Then the unmistakable sounds of bodies being dragged away, followed by whisperings and shuffling feet.

John sucked in a deep breath and acted quickly. He ripped the IV needle out of his arm, ignoring the stinging pain and blood pouring from the hole, tore the ECG sensor pads from his chest and with a painful grunt clambered out of the bed. The vitals monitor shrieked in protest as all his readings dropped to zero, and John crawled behind the equipment to yank the plug out of the wall. The machine went dead, and he quickly formed his body into a tight ball behind the bed, ignoring the crushing pain in his torso, thanking God that he had the doctor remove his chart from the door.

He heard somebody approach the doorway, saw the terrible silhouettes of large-framed men with rifles reflected by the hall light on the floor, and let dread settle on him like a cold blanket as one of the figures stepped into the room and pause, swinging the rifle around. The other intruder stalked to the bathroom door and flung it open, looking inside.

"Nobody's here," one of them whispered. The shadows quickly flitted out the door and John heard them shuffle away down the hall, looking into other rooms. John let his breath out and waited for several more minutes, his ears listening for any movement, before he relaxed and drew in agonizing breaths, his body trembling. _Not very thorough, these guys..._ He sat hidden behind the bed for several more minutes until it seemed like hours had passed and reached up to grip the side of the bed, painfully drawing his body into a hunched standing position. His lungs were on fire and his breathing was labored. Weakness gripped his entire body and he shook. When he felt sufficiently strong enough to even move, John shambled to the door and carefully peeked outside. Nobody was in the hallway.

He cautiously slipped outside his room, trying to ignore the pain wracking his trembling frame. He ambled to the nurses station, listening for any sign of human activity. The station was abandoned. He looked down on the floor behind the counter and saw blood. He looked around the station and saw more blood on the floor. Empty shell casings littered the floor, gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. The nurses and guard detail were killed and dragged away. John closed his eyes for a few seconds and leaned against the station counter.

_ We all die for you, John Connor,_ Derek had told him once.

It sickened John that innocents had to die.

(..._for you...or because of you, Connor...)_

John ground his jaw. There was a time when he would have agreed with whatever the enemy inside him hissed.

The elevators were directly opposite of the nurses station. John limped over to them and pressed the DOWN button. He began to sweat and his stomach was nearly roaring. He desperately needed food. As he nervously waited for the elevator to arrive he thought feverishly of what Tyrell had told him. He had no idea what it was the Gray scientist was looking for, but it was apparently important enough to him to kill for. And James Ellison had whatever it was...either personally, or at ZeiraCorp.

He wanted to know what it was.

Ellison. Savannah. He needed to get to them, then find Derek and Kyle. And then hopefully Sarah, wherever she was. His entire family, both biological and adopted, was in jeopardy.

The elevator chimed, the doors opened and John froze before entering, his breath suspended. Standing inside the car were four military policemen. The one closest to the door instinctively put his hand on his sidearm, looked John up and down warily. "Are you James Murphy?" the MP asked.

John remembered his new driver's license and finally exhaled. Only Martin would know that.

"Yeah?"

The MP nodded. He and the other policeman in the front reached out to grip his arms. "Sir, Captain Bedell instructed us to escort you to the bottom floor due to a security alert. Are you able to walk?"

John sagged in their grip, the pain and weakness nearly overwhelming him. "Not really," he said. They staggered as they attempted to support him. John said, "Whoever they are, they murdered Bedell's security detail and the nurses with automatic weapons. I'd say it's more than an alert now."

"Jesus," one of the MPs muttered as he stared at the aftermath of the carnage. "Those casings look like 5.56 millimeter ammo," he said. "M4 or M16 rifle."

"Let's get Mr. Murphy out of here," said the first MP. He held a walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke into it. "We have an alert in Critical Care Tower, fourth floor, possible enemy activity, shots fired-"

The elevator doorway exploded in a paroxysm of sparks and shrapnel as one of the assassins burst through a hallway door behind the nurses station holding a silenced M4A1 carbine and pouring fully-automatic fire at the car's occupants. The assassin was dressed in a black SWAT-style uniform, tactical vest, black ski mask, electrical-hazard boots and carried an assortment of gear on his belt. The two MPs in front ducked and attempted to return fire but the carbine's rate of fire cut them down quickly. John had tucked himself into a low squat as the bullets tore into the elevator and he felt blood spray all over him. The two remaining military cops had drawn their sidearms and blazed away at the black-clad assailant. The assassin ducked behind the nurses station and reloaded. The elevator door was blocked by the bodies of the two downed MPs and couldn't close. "Help me, Parker," one of the MPs shouted, and they tried pulling their dying comrades into the elevator car. John sat wheezing against the back of the car, in too much agony to move. A small cylindrical object rolled from down the hall to rest in front of the elevator. John immediately knew what it was and closed his eyes-

_(Christ! Flashbang!)_

-as a loud detonation and flash of pure white light filled the whole world. The MPs screamed in pain and surprise as the M84 grenade stunned them. The assassin shot up from behind the counter and sprayed the military cops with a hailstorm of bullets. John watched helplessly as they shook in a dance of death and crumpled into the elevator car.

_(...die for you, John Connor, we all die for you...)_

Smoke from the stun grenade filled the air heavily and the assassin waited a moment before cautiously advancing through the haze. He signaled to his partner down the hallway that he was investigating the elevator and clicked his carbine to single-shot mode.

As he stepped inside the elevator he saw the four MPs lying in a heap on the floor, arms and legs splayed ridiculously, looking like discarded puppets. Bullet holes peppered the interior of the car. Connor was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw movement in the corner of his eye, whirled around with his carbine, but it was too late. Connor stood ramrod straight in the corner by the elevator door with a look of pure agony on his face and one of the MPs' Berettas aimed at the assassin's head, and John wasn't taking any chances. He rapidly squeezed four shots into the side of the killer's skull and the man dropped to the floor. John fired two more rounds into the back of his head and tried running out of the elevator but tripped over one of the dead assassin's boots, his hospital gown nearly ballooning in the air as he flew forward. He fell to the floor and the impact crushed all the air out of his damaged lungs. The pistol flew out of his hand and landed out of reach. Pain electrified his body and John knew he was going to die.

The other assassin calmly strode to John's side and looked down at him with lifeless eyes through the ski mask's eye holes. He leveled his carbine at John's forehead. John spent a second forming his final thought...

_...Cameron, I'll be with you again, soon..._

...and waited for the flash from the carbine's muzzle. The sound of a gunshot filled the hall and the assassin's carbine fell from his hands. More shots rocked the assassin's body and he slumped to the floor. John craned his neck around to see Martin Bedell and a squad of soldiers fan out from the other elevator and into the hall, weapons ready in all directions. Bedell's SDM-R muzzle trailed smoke as he ran to John's side.

"Got here as soon as we could after we heard the MPs on the radio. Can't you stay out of trouble for five minutes, Connor?" he asked sardonically.

John said, "Just make sure they're not playing dead," and passed out.

7

Derek Reese continued to swear as he groped his way through the dark, attempting to find his brother. It would be dawn soon, which would make it easier to find Kyle, but he was exhausted. His leg still ached and fatigue was blanketing his senses. _The little fucker can book,_ he thought with both frustration and pride, as he always marveled at Kyle's latent athleticism and resourcefulness. They'd bicker as siblings always do, fighting over the most trivial things until Mom would come storming in to kick both their asses and force them to come to peace over whatever it was, but Derek loved Kyle more than anything, with the possible exception of Mom and Dad (and possibly Jenny Ortiz, even though they were on the outs lately) and, despite what he'd usually say to his close circle of friends and teammates, he would die for his little brother.

Derek slowed down, finally out of breath and began walking aimlessly, huffing. He looked up at the fading night sky, expecting to see stars. Instead, the sky was covered over by clouds...or something that looked like clouds. The stars were gone. He frowned, wondering if it was going to rain. It would be the perfect ending to his short life of being a teenaged loser, he decided with a grunt.

He was about to say fuck it and abandon his search for Kyle, maybe walk down to the 7-Eleven to see if they were open and grab a Monster drink, curfew be damned, when he stumbled over shrubs and onto the neighborhood park. He looked up at the small playground at the center and saw somebody sitting on the swing set. It was Kyle. The younger Reese pushed himself lazily back and forth on the swing, not looking up at Derek as he approached. Derek took the swing next to his brother and for the next few moments they sat there side-by-side, not speaking, not looking at each other. The sky took on a mottled gray hue as dawn approached. Finally, Derek broke the silence.

"Hey," he said sullenly, "I'm sorry for breaking your telescope."

Kyle didn't respond. He continued shuffling his feet, slowly pushing himself back and forth. His face was dirty and his arms were scraped and bruised. His short brown hair was flecked with dirt. Blood formed a fresh scab on his forehead. His eyes were closed and his mouth was turned down in a sour frown.

"Look, bro, I'm really sorry. I was a real jerk. I'll buy you another one, I promise."

"You're a real douchebag!" Kyle suddenly snapped, glaring into Derek's eyes. He twisted the swing around to face him. "You always lose your temper and I'm getting sick of it! You always break my stuff when you get all pissy and mad because you get yourself in trouble! You're a big asshole and I wish somebody would really kick your ass someday! Maybe it'll be me when I'm bigger!" He jumped off the swing and quickly walked away, toward home.

Derek sighed and stood up. "Look, Kyle...you're right. I'm a d-bag and I know it. I don't mean to break your stuff. Look..." He jogged to catch up with his brother. "Kyle," he said, stopping him to turn him around. "Okay...if you wanna kick my ass, go right ahead." He stood placidly, disarming all defenses.

Kyle scoffed. "It's what you want, and I know you're using reverse-psychology, you a-hole."

Derek blinked. "Reverse-what? No, man, seriously, I do need my ass kicked. You're right. C'mon...this is your shot. Take it." He lowered himself to allow Kyle a better angle to punch his face.

Kyle paused, considering. He really did want to bust Derek up for all the indignities he'd suffered at his older brother's hands, including all the times Derek ate all the Doritos in the pantry before Kyle had a chance to grab some. But doing so would only give Derek leverage to pick another fight with him sooner or later, and he was tired of all the BS he had to put up with. Instead, he said, "No," and walked toward home again.

Derek sighed, almost fell back into the habit of making a derisive comment but stopped to consider. His little brother was certainly more mature than he'd ever given him credit for, and his appreciation for him widened. He caught up with Kyle and pulled him into a tight brotherly hug, half-dragging him along the way. "You're right, you shouldn't indulge a douchebag," he said. Kyle hugged his brother back despite his anger.

"You know Mom and Dad are still going to kill us," said Kyle.

Derek shrugged. "I'll say it was my fault. I'll take the hit. It ain't like we haven't done anything like this before, anyway." That drew a sudden chuckle from Kyle, and the sound of it made Derek smile. As the brothers walked home they looked curiously east, toward where the sun rose. The sky was painted in muted pastels and grays, obscuring the first rays of the sun.

It was a strange new dawn that would greet the world.

8

Deckard was still numb. The conversation he had earlier with Brent Danford/Marcus Wright echoed in his forebrain and dominated most of his rational thinking. He was not a superstitious man nor did he believe in much beyond what his five senses told him, but the barriers of reality were surely being chipped away in his mind.

Danford/Wright had told Deckard that John Connor and his mother were working together and that Connor had lied through his teeth at the federal building. He and his team of federal agents were ordered to secure John Connor at the hospital and wait for Sarah Connor to try to make contact with him. As far as being a former dead man, he told Deckard that he had no idea what he was talking about. He certainly was not an executed murderer and he was who he said he was. Deckard was mistaken. End of story.

Deckard didn't believe a word of it. Not the second part, anyway. He was sure he wasn't mistaken. And the fed did not sound convincing when replying to Deckard's question concerning his identity. To Deckard, the fed sounded like he was reciting something from memory, and the detective noted the faraway look the fed had. He was too old to be fooled.

He and the marshal were standing in the parking garage of Cedars Sinai Medical's main campus. The marshal told Deckard that they'd been keeping tabs on him because Connor might talk to Deckard if he was brought in. Deckard was dumbfounded. _And how long have you pricks been watching me?_ he'd shouted upon hearing that bit of news. Danford/Wright smiled somewhat smugly and said, _Since the blackout, and it was our pleasure to save your life, Mr. Deckard._

"Thanks," muttered Deckard while he waited for the federal marshal to finish issuing orders to his team upon their entering the hospital over his Bluetooth. The fed showed the army commander, Colonel Perry, what looked like a federal warrant for John Connor's arrest and Deckard had noted the suspicious look the colonel had on his face. Colonel Perry allowed the men to proceed, but Deckard knew something was up and a phone or radio call was going to be made.

The plan was simple: locate Connor, secure him by any means necessary, render him unconscious with tranquilizers, disguise him as a patient, and have him brought out to their waiting van in the garage to be spirited away to a secure location.

Danford/Wright put his link on standby and said, "What?"

Deckard shook his head. "Nothing. Why the tactical gear? You guys are armed like the fucking marines. Expecting trouble?"

The fed gave a tiny grin. "Mr. Connor and his mother spent years outside the country in some of the most lawless and violent places imaginable as he was growing up. And don't forget that he was a suspect in springing his mother out of the county jail four years ago. He's trained in guerrilla combat and has proven himself to be highly resourceful. And he still could have had a hand in destroying the ZeiraCorp building. And since the recent escalation of the national alert level, we are authorized to use deadly force if necessary."

Deckard tilted his head. "What national alert? I heard rumors over the radio about something."

Danford/Wright glared at him. "You're not aware? The country is at war. Nuclear weapons were detonated over major strategic cities six hours ago. Places like Washington, DC and San Diego are gone, destroyed. The nationwide blackout was caused by several electromagnetic pulse bursts from warheads that detonated in the upper atmosphere. National Command Authority is in charge, which means I have command of the Connor investigation as well as other federal police operations in LA." The threat was unspoken.

"Jesus Christ," Deckard said. He desperately wanted to smoke...and get drunk. He stared at the fed, unable to believe the man's claims about himself. The resemblance was too creepy. He tried one last play in an attempt to get Danford/Wright to expose something, anything about himself. He put on his "good cop" persona and went to work.

"When you killed your brother, Marcus," Deckard said quietly,"did you tell him you were sorry, or did you simply run?"

The fed's left cheek twitched at that and his eyes suddenly lost focus, glazing over. He slowly turned his head to Deckard and quietly began to say, "I didn't...I..." Then his eyes reverted to their cold glare and he quickly said, "I don't know what you're talking about, detective." He turned away.

Deckard's face turned pale. _Bingo,_ he thought, _can't keep repressing those memories, can we? _He tried again. "How did it feel when they strapped you to the gurney and inserted the needles, Marcus? Were you scared? Was it cold in the execution chamber?"

He wasn't expecting the response the fed gave him. Danford/Wright lunged at the detective with speed that didn't give Deckard time to even be surprised. He grabbed Deckard by the throat and shoved his body hard against a concrete support, pressing hard enough to cut off the detective's breathing. Deckard struggled against the fed's unyielding grip and felt his senses fading as the blood ceased flowing to his brain.

_"I didn't kill my brother!"_ the fed screamed. "I just happened to be there when it happened and nobody believed me when I said I didn't do it!" His cold blue eyes bored into Deckard's with an animosity that went beyond hatred, then he blinked and relaxed his grip on Deckard's throat. Deckard drew in an agonizing breath and dropped to a sitting position against the support. He massaged his neck and gazed up at the fed. The man looked as if he was going to have a heart attack, the way he stared into nothingness and staggered backward. Then he seemed to compose himself and said, "What just happened? I...don't remember what we were talking about."

Deckard smiled wickedly and slowly nodded. "I was going to say welcome back, Marcus Wright."

The fed stared for a long moment at the detective, then brought his hand to his Bluetooth in his ear. "Roger, Alpha Team," he said, eyes widening. He listened for several seconds and said, "I see. Then extract your men and rendezvous with us here in the garage. Proceed with caution and if anyone tries to stop you, you know what to do. Out."

Deckard didn't like the sound of that last statement. "What will they do if accosted?"

The federal marshal didn't answer. His face remained stony, but a storm raged behind his glacial eyes. He received another call over the Bluetooth and he listened, then said, "I copy, Bravo-One. Hold your position until the brothers come home, then secure them and meet at the safe point when I give the all-clear. Out."

"Something big going on this morning, huh, Marcus?" Deckard quietly said.

The marshal drew his .45 ACP M1911 pistol and pulled back the top slide, pressing the muzzle against Deckard's forehead. He squeezed the trigger until there was a noticeable click before the hammer release was almost at the no-return point.

"No more questions, detective," Marcus Wright whispered, his eyes like two trapped animals.

9

Derek and Kyle got home just as the sky had taken on a garish purple-gray glow. If a late summer storm was brewing, Derek thought, it was going to be the ugliest he'd ever seen. His leg had improved somewhat and he was looking forward to plopping in his bed to sleep for a few hours. Chasing his little brother had given him an exhausting workout. As they approached the back patio door they noted the damage to the patio cover they'd caused by their fall from the garage roof. "Jesus, we sure smashed it to shit," an incredulous Derek said.

Kyle stared at the smashed-up debris that was scattered all over the back of the house and suddenly giggled. "Wow, we sure did. You know they're gonna make us put it back together again."

"All damn week," Derek huffed. "I'll probably be living at Home Depot after that." They tried the back sliding door and were surprised to find it unlocked. Derek slid it open and stepped inside, shrugged and hollered, "Mom, Dad, we're home!"

He was answered by silence. Derek called out again but his parents still didn't answer. The silence didn't sound good to the boys. The power was still out. Derek went over to the refrigerator to get a drink of orange juice before it got too warm for his palate and opened a jug of Minute Maid. As he gulped from the jug he thought to look to see if the cars were still in the driveway. Maybe Mom and Dad went driving around looking for them. He opened the door to the garage and was surprised to see both cars still inside. Not even the telltale ticking of engines cooling from being driven.

"They gotta still be sleeping," Derek said as he put the orange juice back. Kyle had been sitting on the living room sofa, nearly succumbing to sleep when Derek loped in from the kitchen. He looked at his younger brother and shrugged. "Might as well go upstairs to face the music," he said. Kyle sighed and rose from the sofa to pad upstairs with Derek, a look of doom crossing his face.

The brothers stepped upstairs into the hallway and knocked on their parents' master bedroom door. No answer. Derek grimaced. Too weird. He tried the door handle. The bedroom door opened and he started to say, "Look, we're sorry about-"

He stared at what lay on the bed. His mother and father were sprawled face up. Blood stained their sleeping shirts, the bed, and spattered trails up the wall behind the headboard. Gunpowder residue tattooed their clothes and skin. They'd been shot at close range.

"Derek, what's-" Kyle started to say as he stepped next to his brother. He stared in wide-eyed horror at the scene in the bedroom. "M-M-Mom...Dad..." he stammered.

"Oh God, oh Jesus," Derek muttered. He took hold of Kyle's arm. "We gotta get outta here. Oh Jesus-"

They didn't get to make two steps when two black-clad figures stepped ninja-like out into the hallway from their hiding spots and aimed their automatic rifles at the boys' heads. "Stop right there and turn around slowly, boys, and don't talk," one of them hissed behind his black ski mask. The boys put their hands up, shaking uncontrollably. "What-" said Derek.

One of the ninja-like intruders whipped his carbine around and rammed the stock into Derek's belly. Derek felt the wind suddenly vacate his lungs, felt the explosion of pain in his abdomen and dropped to his knees. "I told you to turn around and don't talk, Mr. Reese. Now you boys do it." The voice had no accent. Derek grunted in pain as he shuffled around on his knees. Kyle began hyperventilating and turned around to face the terrible scene in the bedroom again. The intruders pulled out duct tape from their cargo pockets and went to work binding the boys' wrists and ankles together. When they were done, one of them tapped against his left ear and said, "This is Bravo-One, we have the quarry secured. Awaiting further orders."

"What do you want from us?" yelled Derek. That brought another sledgehammer-like blow from the carbine stock, this time against the middle of his shoulder blades. A bright flash of white light exploded in his vision as the stinging pain bit into his nervous system. He gagged as a boot pressed against the back of his head, driving his nose into the carpet. "I told you to be quiet," the intruder growled. Kyle began sobbing. "Oh, please be a man and don't cry," the intruder moaned.

"What's the situation?" the other asked.

"Connor is at CS Medical, and wouldn't you know, it's army central. I don't know what the marshal did to talk his way in, but apparently they've been having problems there. He wouldn't elaborate. Right now we just sit here and wait. Kerry and Schermer are outside watching in case any trouble shows up, so we're good."

Kyle had craned his neck around to try to get a look at the assailants. One of them caught his movement and aimed his carbine at him. "Uh-uh, kid, back around to the floor," he grated.

Kyle nodded tearfully and obeyed, but not before he suddenly noticed movement behind the two intruders. He figured it was another one of them, and he quickly decided that he and Derek were going to die.

The assassin who growled at Kyle suddenly felt something press against the back of his neck and he said, "Wha-" There was a flash of light, an explosion, and Kyle felt a body slump onto his back. He screamed. Derek whipped his body around to see another figure, dressed in black, grapple with the other assassin, trying to shove the carbine out of his hands. The newcomer shot a gloved palm into the bottom of his ski mask and he staggered back, disoriented. The carbine dropped to the floor. The assassin lashed a boot at his attacker and drove it into the newcomer's midsection. A feminine-sounding grunt escaped from the other, and he/she fell backward. The assassin reached for his fallen carbine but Derek, thinking quickly, kicked it away. "Fucker!" the assassin yelled, reaching for his sidearm.

Derek's distraction was all that was needed by the other warrior. With speed that astonished Derek, the figure shot up from the floor, whipped out a butterfly knife and shoved the blade into the base of the intruder's ski mask. The man gobbled and choked and fell to his knees, scarcely believing that he'd been killed. The black-clad rescuer than picked up his/her discarded gun and pressed it against the assassin's forehead, blowing his brains out the back of his skull. He slumped forward, twitched once, and was still.

Derek gasped and sputtered, "Who are you?" He fidgeted against the duct tape. He didn't know if this was indeed their savior or another killer.

The figure pulled off its own ski mask. A woman with short dark hair and piercing, scary-looking green eyes and a granite-hard face stared down into his own. "You'll get to know me again, Derek Reese," she said coldly in an iron-bound tone. She pulled out another blade and shoved him over to cut the tape binding him.

"There are more outside," Derek said when she'd freed his hands and feet.

"I know," the female warrior said. She rushed over to free Kyle and he gazed up at her like she was a warrior goddess from the pages of a comic book.

"Wow," he said. "Thank you." The woman didn't answer, instead glancing at Derek, then back at Kyle. She held out her gloved hand to the younger brother. Kyle thought he saw something in her eyes, an emotion he couldn't readily identify. Longing? Regret? He couldn't tell. She looked directly into his eyes and Kyle almost thought she was about to cry.

"Kyle Reese?" she asked, tenderness suddenly emerging in her tone.

He nodded. How did she know his name? "Yeah."

She smiled grimly. "Come with me if you want to live."

He didn't hesitate and grabbed her hand, feeling her unnatural strength as she pulled him to his feet. The front door downstairs crashed open and Derek said, "Shit!"

"Out the window, over there, move!" she yelled, pointing to Kyle's room, which faced the backyard. The boys ran over to it and Derek began climbing out onto the small roof overhang, above the kitchen's bay windows. He gripped Kyle's hands and pulled him out. The woman followed a second later, and she shouted, "Jump!" Kyle hesitated for a second but Derek went, pulling Kyle with him. The boys pounded to the ground below and Derek remembered to roll with the fall. Kyle wasn't so lucky, and he felt something snap in his ankle as he hit. "Oooooowwwwww!" he screamed.

The woman hit the ground on her booted feet, like a cat, and she ran over to pull Kyle to his feet. He mewled in agony as he put his weight on his right foot. "He broke his ankle!" Derek shouted.

"Maybe, but it could also be a sprain," the woman said. "Help me get him away from here!" she yelled. Derek took hold of Kyle's left shoulder while she grabbed his right and they sprinted away. When they got about thirty paces the ground around them began erupting in tiny explosions. Derek stole a look over his shoulder to see the other ninja-like killers leaning out the bedroom window, shooting at them. "They're shooting at us!" he screamed.

"They were," the woman said with a hint of sarcasm. She paused, pulled something out that looked like a small TV remote, and pressed something on it. "Don't look!" she shouted, pushing both boys to the ground.

The house exploded in a huge ball of orange fire. The sound was deafening, making Derek dizzy. Windows and car windshields for a quarter-mile throughout the neighborhood shattered. Birds of every species flapped away in terror. Something fell from the sky and landed near the huddled boys. It was one of the killers' black helmets. Derek didn't want to know if something was still attached to it.

The woman helped them to their feet and helped Derek support a hobbling Kyle. "Semtex," she explained with a hint of smugness. "I have a car nearby, let's get in it and get to the hospital. If my son needs blood, you're the only donor who matches him, Derek."

"Wait, how do you know that?" Derek huffed, incredulous. "How do you know who we are? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

The woman looked at him without smiling. "You boys knew me when you were men in a different time. I'll explain later. If it matters to you...I'm Sarah Connor. We're going to see my son, John Connor.

"That's another name you'll get to know, very soon."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Bullet the Blue Sky

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

Rick Deckard stared into the cold, dead eyes of the murderer pressing a gun against his forehead and laughed.

The man who earlier had called himself Brent Danford, deputy United States Marshal, blinked madly, clenched his jaw, felt his body tremble. He could barely hold the .45 ACP against the police detective's head. His hand shook violently. "What do you find so funny, detective?" he demanded, almost screaming.

"You, Marcus," said Deckard, chuckling. "I find it very funny that you have to pretend anymore. Come on, you can talk to me. What went wrong, Marcus? I have time to talk."

Marcus Wright shed every pretense of being Brent Danford and grabbed Deckard by his shirt collar, pulling the detective to his feet with sudden, unnatural strength. He slammed the detective against the concrete support he'd been sitting against and held the .45 under Deckard's chin. "I have no reason to keep you alive much longer, detective," he whispered. "I thought I could use you to reach through to Connor, get him to talk, but I have other means. You're no longer needed." He let go of Deckard and stepped back, leveling the gun dead-center at the bridge of the detective's nose.

"You're retired, Deckard," Wright said slowly. He eased the trigger back.

"You never did tell me how you came back, Marcus," Deckard said, smiling. "At the very least tell me how you managed that before you kill me."

Wright hesitated. "And how would either of us benefit from that?"

"I think you want to tell me," said Deckard. He stared into the lethal darkness at the end of the .45's barrel, then into Wright's eyes, and he saw what he needed to see. "You can't even keep up the act anymore, and it's only us right now. I'm being your friend. I doubt you have many of those, Marcus."

Wright slowly lowered the pistol and breathed heavily for a moment. "I should just kill you," he said. He closed his eyes, opened them, shook his head. "I don't...I'm not sure," he said, sighing. He looked away for a moment, lost in thought. A pained look crept over his face and he suddenly dropped to his knees, shaking violently. To the detective it almost looked like an epileptic seizure. Deckard made a halfhearted move to touch his shoulder and the fed abruptly brushed his hand away with the gun.

_ "Don't touch me!"_ Wright screamed. Deckard backed away and said nothing. After several long moments, Wright slowly moved himself into a sitting position on the floor and drew labored breaths, his head hanging down. Deckard lost track of the moments that passed, giving the fed a chance to collect himself. He wanted a cigarette. Badly. He wanted to be somewhere else entirely, but there was something more important he wanted.

He wanted to know how a dead man could be resurrected like Lazarus.

2

Derek Reese sat in the back seat of the dark green Jeep Cherokee with his brother, Kyle. Kyle's head was resting on his older brother's lap with his hands bunched beneath his face. He'd been sobbing since they'd been rescued from the charnel house that had been their home, where they found their mother and father brutally murdered. Derek sat as still as a statue, his nerve endings numb. He barely drew a breath. The sight of his parents lying face up on their bed, mouths gaping open, sheets stained with their blood, burned into his mind like a photographic afterimage. He was only dimly aware of Kyle staining his pants with his crying.

Their rescuer, Sarah Connor, drove quickly through suburban Los Angeles like she could do it blindfolded. Derek almost wished she was blindfolded because she kept glaring at him in the rear view mirror, and her eyes were the scariest he'd ever seen. They were filled with near-homicidal fury, like green-flecked daggers pointed at his face. He looked away and swallowed, even though his throat was very dry.

"Do you need water?" she suddenly asked him. Her voice had lost most of its bite but not its bark. Derek said, "Huh?"

"I asked you if you need water. I also have blankets if you and Kyle are going into shock. Water will replace any electrolytes you lost and you'll need to be warm to maintain your body temperature if you feel cold. If you're too warm I can turn the AC on. If you're hungry, I have some crackers and pretzels up here."

Derek shook his head. "N-no," he stammered. He was too afraid to eat or drink anything, fearing his stomach would expel whatever was introduced. He was also afraid of receiving anything from her.

"You should eat or drink something, Reese," Sarah Connor said. "Let me know if you change your mind. Your body will change it for you, eventually."

Derek said, "Okay," and gazed out the window at the passing urban landscape. It was a landscape that seemed to be vomiting itself inside-out. Once-orderly homes had been ransacked, belongings scattered across lawns and in the street, litter was everywhere, windows were broken, cars were picked apart like carcasses torn by vultures. Every indication of human society breaking down was on full display, law and order seemingly absent. He shuddered and looked away from the window.

"How do you know us?" Derek half-demanded, half-croaked. "Why don't you at least tell us that?"

The woman glared at him through the rear view mirror. "You wouldn't understand it right now," she curtly explained. "Just understand and accept that you're safe for now and we're going to see my son. I had no idea where he was until one of those stooges blurted it out earlier and that actually saved me a ton of time. When we see John, I'll try to explain some things. Right now your safety and Kyle's safety are top priority. Don't ask me again until we get to the hospital." She paused for a moment, then asked, "How's Kyle's ankle?"

Derek shrugged. "I don't know."

"It is swollen?"

Derek reached down and carefully felt his brother's right ankle. It felt slightly larger than normal, and as he probed it, Kyle squirmed in pain. Derek said, "Yeah, it feels swollen. I don't know if anything's broken though."

Sarah Connor said, "On the floor back there is a first aid kid. Should be right at your feet. Inside is a cold pack. Open it up, squeeze it and apply it to his ankle. That should bring some of the swelling down, and I have some Motrin in there. Make sure he drinks some water, too."

Derek looked down and saw the first aid kit, its side adorned with the red cross. He reached down to pick it up and he opened it. He found the cold pack and did as she instructed. As he pressed the rapidly-cooling pack to his brother's injured ankle, he asked, "What's so important about seeing your son? I know he's your son, but...aren't people looking for you? I read some things about you on CNN, Ms. Connor, and they weren't exactly glowing reviews."

The woman said nothing. Several minutes passed by and Derek said, "You blew up a building yesterday, didn't you?"

She remained silent. Derek couldn't see her face, but he had the feeling that he was pressing his luck. Her silence was ominous. Still, he felt an irrational need to fill the void with conversation, as he was scared of the woman, and he figured that the more they spoke, the more he'd ascertain her motives. He changed the topic. "Aren't you worried about the FBI or the military looking for you? I heard the National Guard is all over the city..."

"The army isn't looking for me," she suddenly snapped, gripping the steering wheel until her knuckles were bone-white. She glared at him through the rear view mirror. Her eyes blazed with annoyance. "And I didn't blow up a goddamned building yesterday. As for the government...there is none. Judgment Day came early this morning. The war with the machines has started. It's important that the two of you live."

Derek shook his head in bewilderment. "What—Judgment what? What the hell are you talking about?"

"They killed your parents, Reese," Sarah Connor growled without a trace of pity. "They unleashed missiles to destroy cities all across the world. They destroyed most of our communications and electronics. They've been trying to kill me and my son and they tried to kill you this morning. Machines. Skynet. Terminators. They're real and they won't stop until they kill every living thing on the face of the earth. _Deal with it._ We're going to collect my son and whoever else we can find who wants to join us and we're going to leave the city. We need to get as far away as possible to build a resistance to the machines and we're going to smash those metal motherfuckers into junk. Understand?"

Derek understood. And he was terrified.

Kyle drooled on his lap and murmured, "Who're we smashing?"

3

Marcus Wright finally stirred, drew his head up and said, "I remember being strapped into the gurney at Longview and feeling the needles being stuck in my arm. I kept looking at the window where the warden sat, looking at that red phone that hung on the wall near him, almost praying that it would ring, because it would mean the governor was calling to stop the execution. It didn't ring. I kept staring at it, then I remember feeling sleepy, and I knew it wouldn't be long. But I kept looking at that damned phone, willing it to ring, even though I knew it wouldn't."

A call came over his Bluetooth and he ignored it. The mission somehow didn't matter anymore. Wright appeared to struggle with his next words and Deckard felt something stir in his belly. The marshal said, "I fell asleep quickly, but it wasn't the kind of sleep that makes you dream. I just remember falling into this blackness, feeling cold, then not feeling anything. But then I suddenly awoke, lying on another bed in a brightly-lit room. It was an operating table in a hospital setting. Bright lights were lit all around me, all this machinery was around me, all these surgical tools. People dressed in medical garments stood nearby, staring at me. Their gowns were covered in blood. I was too numb then to consider that it was mine.

"Then I remember _her_...and this man, and they were standing together near the foot of the table I lay on. I knew who she was...Kogan, this scientist who occasionally visited me at Longview, trying to get me to sign my body over to whatever the hell kind of research she was working on. I always refused, mostly out of spite, because I still thought I had a chance to overturn my conviction and win a new trial.

"That never happened. As my appeals ran out and my execution date neared, I thought, what the fuck, might as well. Won't do anybody any good after getting cremated and made part of a roadbed. So on the day of my execution, she came to talk to me one last time, almost begging me to reconsider." Wright smirked. "She was looking really bad back then. I knew she had cancer, and she could barely move, but she was really goddamned determined to get me to sign those damned release papers. I finally agreed to do it, but only after if she agreed to kiss me. I wanted to know...what death tasted like. She refused, but I grabbed her and kissed her. Then I signed the papers and told her to get the hell out of my sight."

Wright's voice caught in his throat and he cleared it before continuing. "The man I didn't recognize, and he stood a little ways back while she spoke. Dr. Kogan asked me if I could hear her. I couldn't talk for some reason...sounds just wouldn't come from my throat, so I nodded my head. She nodded hers. She looked a little better this time, but I could tell she was still sick. I thought maybe her cancer went into remission or she found a treatment for it. The man still didn't talk. He looked at me like I was a piece of meat on the floor or something, just seemingly disinterested in whether I lived or died. Dr. Kogan walked toward my side and told me to grip her hand. It was then that I realized I could barely move. They had me strapped down on the table. But I took her hand and squeezed it and she suddenly gasped and looked weak. I hadn't realized that I was crushing her hand, and one of the other doctors put something against my neck and I immediately relaxed. They pumped me with a tranquilizer. I let go of her hand, hearing the bones in her hand make this creaking, squishy sound. I tried screaming at them, wanting to know what they were doing to me, and nobody answered.

"Finally the man steps closer to me and smiles this really wicked grin. He says to me, 'Well done, Marcus, I believe we're going to have a successful program.' Then he leaves, and I'm so tired I'm falling back to sleep. I hear Dr. Kogan whimpering on the floor, hear somebody come over to help her up, and I black out."

Wright shook as he caught his breath and continued. "I don't know how long I slept, but the next thing I know, I wake up and I'm floating in this completely black place, in water or something. All I remember is I couldn't see anything in this liquid, I couldn't hear anything, not even my own heartbeat. I could breathe, could feel something over my mouth and nose, but that was it. I was scared, not about possibly drowning, but about how long I was going to be kept there. And I couldn't feel anything, that was the worst part. I had no idea how long I'd been in there, didn't know if it was hours, days, weeks..._years_, even. I tried struggling but I couldn't even tell if my body was even moving. I felt sluggish, couldn't even feel my fingers or toes, if they were still even part of me. If it was Hell I was in...it sure goddamned seemed like it."

Deckard had lowered to a squat, positioning himself close to Wright. "Like some kind of sensory deprivation chamber? There was this movie I watched a long time ago, _Altered States_, that dealt with that."

"I guess," said Wright. "Never saw it anyway. But the worst part was that _I couldn't remember stuff from my childhood_, and the more I tried to bring up past events the more they seemed to slip away. Couldn't remember school, couldn't remember my brother, my parents, where I used to live...it was like it was all scrubbed. My entire life was being completely overwritten, erased. I started to panic, because there came a point when I couldn't even remember my own name. Everything about me seemed to...contract. Get crushed.

"Then I hear this voice whispering in my ear, saying, 'Don't be afraid, help is here.' You have no idea how good that felt, because it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard, and the next thing I know I'm opening my eyes and I'm lying on a bed in a dim room. My hands and feet weren't strapped down and I moved around, making sure I wasn't paralyzed. Then a couple of men in suits walk into the room, one with a briefcase, the other with a laptop, and they introduce themselves as federal agents. I remember they were really nice, really sympathetic, apologizing for the situation I was put in, the accident, and the..._reconstructive surgery..._I underwent.

"I ask them what happened, and they tell me I was injured in an explosion at a house my team and I assaulted, looking for an escaped fugitive. The place had been booby-trapped, my team was killed, I was the only survivor...I just...accepted it all. They tell me that I was suffering from memory loss and they were there to try to...re-educate me about myself. They tell me my name was Brent Danford and I was a US Marshal. I told them my name was Marcus Wright, and they told me no, that can't be possible. They show me pictures of Marcus Wright, a guy with a face just like mine...and he was executed in 2003. I almost freaked out. I told them he looked exactly like me. They shrug it off as coincidence. Everybody has a double out there, they say.

"I accepted it all at that point. I had hazy memories of the deprivation chamber and they told me I was in a coma, probably dreamed the whole thing. They congratulate me for making a full recovery and tell me they can't wait to have me back on the job, helping hunt down bad people, blah-blah. They show me pictures of my parents, my brother and sister, where I went to school, where I graduated college, my degree in psychology...I just...accepted it." He looked into Deckard's eyes, seeking some kind of comfort. He received only a vapid curiosity, behind which he saw what looked like sympathy from the detective.

"I didn't have a choice. I couldn't remember anything before that day. But...I always had the feeling that something was wrong...something was taken from me." Wright looked away, shaking his head. "I remember leaving the hospital, being driven back to my home, which was a condo in Burbank. Nice place. Couldn't remember living there, of course. Then I hear the doorbell, open the door, and there's my family. Four complete, total strangers to me. But I accepted them. They were so happy to see me, so loving. I accepted it. Then this beautiful woman shows up with flowers and a card for me. She says she's my girlfriend, she turned down my marriage proposal, but she's reconsidering, especially since she says she almost lost me." Wright chuckled and his body convulsed as it turned into a maniacal laugh. "She almost lost me, she said...I couldn't remember who the fuck she was, but she apparently knew everything about me, and I accepted it. _I lost my whole life_. I was being offered one...a good one. Did I have a choice? I accepted it...all of it."

Wright's laughter slowly died, echoing in the nearly-silent garage. "A few days later, I was visited by that man I remembered standing next to Dr. Kogan. He was very friendly, very...cultured. Articulate. I couldn't place his accent. He said he represented the government, showed me some credentials, and asked me if I felt ready to resume my duties as a federal agent. I told him I felt okay, and then I asked him why he called me Marcus back when I was on the operating table. He said he didn't remember that at all. He told me that I must've dreamed it all while I was under, being worked on by the surgeons...the carjacking when my brother and those two cops were killed...the trial...the execution...waking up and seeing my blood all over those doctors..._everything _was all a dream while I was under anesthesia. I...accepted it. All of it.

"The next day I had a plane ticked for Georgia, to the Marshals' training center, and I remember being waved through LAX security because of my federal badge on my coat. I arrive in Georgia and everybody welcomes me back, shaking my hand, smiling. I breeze through the training program and I'm re-certified as a federal agent, GS-10, and I find myself pursuing escaped bad guys.

"I accepted it, detective. What the hell else was I supposed to do?"

Deckard slowly nodded and said, "But you know deep down that none of it is real."

Wright looked down. "I...I know that there's something wrong...I don't know if I can trust my instincts or my memory. You shouldn't...trust me...detective. I honestly don't know what's real and...what's a lie anymore."

The access door to the garage suddenly opened and six of Wright's team muscled their way through it, weapons and gear clicking like time bombs as they marched toward the marshal. "We lost Johnson and Zeller," the man in the lead said, clearly angry. His black ski mask was off, revealing a granite-faced man with cold blue eyes and hair trimmed almost to his scalp. "I've been trying to get through to you, marshal. We had to neutralize almost an entire security squad just to get to the garage, and the army knows something is up. We need to fall back. Connor is under heavy guard now and we can't extract him without starting a war. What's your plan?" He looked down at Wright almost disgustedly. "What are you doing on the floor, marshal?"

Wright looked at Deckard, then at the squad leader. He picked up his .45 and slowly rose to his feet, looking defeated. Deckard stood straight and looked at Wright, then at the other man, watching for anything, his muscles tensed. Marcus Wright turned around, looking into the interior of the garage. It was packed with parked cars and other vehicles, most of which were probably dead, disabled by EMP. There were a dozen people milling around on their level, mostly hospital staff, a few of which paused to glance at the scene of a half-dozen men dressed in black tactical gear standing by the entrance, and they hurried away.

Wright turned around and raised his .45 to the squad leader's face. "This is my plan," he said as he squeezed the trigger. The man's face disappeared in a flash and cloud of crimson. It happened so quickly that the other five squad members were caught off guard. "Deckard, run!" Wright screamed. Deckard had already caught the cue before the gun went off and raced to hide behind one of the parked cars, anticipating the gun battle that was sure to follow.

He didn't have to wait for more than a few seconds. From his hiding spot he watched the remaining squad members let loose with their carbines, unleashing fully-automatic fire on the marshal. Wright suddenly moved faster than most human beings could gather their thoughts and literally ducked and rolled with his pistol in his outstretched hand firing wildly at the tactical team, which was still bunched together, giving the marshal a huge target of opportunity. He managed to pick off two with direct hits to their throats, but the rest of his shots hit body armor. Wright scampered behind a car and quickly reloaded his .45. The remaining three squad members abandoned their dying comrades, leaving them twitching on the floor as they ran for cover. Wright peeked from behind the fender of the car and was met by a barrage of bullets striking the bumper and headlight, temporarily blinding him. He ducked behind the car and heard something rolling toward him. He cursed and ran, staying low, as the M84 stun grenade detonated in a blazing flash of light and a deafening thunderclap. He took cover behind a sport-utility vehicle and crouched ready to move, knowing that the others were already moving.

Deckard quietly moved behind another car and tried his damnedest to calm his trembling muscles. He was scared but also angry that he didn't have a weapon on him and sure as shit couldn't call for backup. He caught a quick glimpse of the flashbang rolling across the ground and looked away. As it detonated he saw one of the tactical guys scurry behind one of the nearby vehicles. He was sure if he was seen by one of them, they wouldn't hesitate to kill him, but he couldn't move without being seen.

Then he saw a flash of movement behind one of the SUVs parked across the garage and saw Wright aim at the car the black-clad killer just hid behind. The marshal fired three shots at the car, rupturing the fuel tank. The acrid odor of gasoline suddenly wafted through the garage as the liquid pooled beneath the vehicle, and Deckard suddenly remembered the Zippo lighter he had in his pocket, nearly forgotten. He pulled it out, sparked it to life, and, aiming carefully, threw the lit Zippo at the gurgling pond of gasoline.

Then he ran like hell.

There was the sound of screaming, boots pounding, and then the sound of rushing wind and the sensation of heat filled the garage. Deckard stole a quick look behind him and watched the firestorm erupt from beneath the car, saw the tactical guy leap out into the open, his clothing aflame, heard two shots from the other side of the garage and saw the burning man drop to the ground. The cars parked next to the burning vehicle suddenly burst into flame, and then a fiery domino effect came to deadly life as nearly vehicle on one side of the garage level began to explode, sending booming thunderclaps throughout the building.

The fire alarm sounded and the sprinkler system in the ceiling spurted to life, but the water did little to stop the explosive chain reaction as all the cars were so closely packed together, one explosion triggering another. Deckard barely made it to the garage exit when something behind him suddenly detonated, blowing out one of his eardrums. The shockwave smacked Deckard in the back and sent him hurling through the exit gate, smashing through it like a battering ram and landing like a pile of rags in the street.

Rick Deckard couldn't feel his body as he opened his eyes and found himself lying face up on the asphalt. He could barely draw a breath. The parking garage was on fire. He heard short bursts of gunfire within the burning building, then the sound of vehicles rolling up somewhere behind him, and Deckard somehow twisted his head around to see what it was. Several army Humvees screeched to a halt near the garage entrance and soldiers spilled out of them like ants from a mound. Somebody shouted, "Check that guy on the ground!"

Deckard heard boots pounding up to him and a pair of hands grabbed his torn jacket, pulling him away from the catastrophe. Soldiers with carbines took up positions outside the burning garage. Somebody screamed for a fire control unit and then Deckard heard someone nearby yell, "What the fucking hell is that?"

Deckard saw where the soldier was pointing and watched, incredulous, as a figure emerged from the flaming garage entrance. Its clothing was smoldering and the figure limped as it made its way toward the ring of soldiers. Their weapons clicked to readiness and somebody screamed at the figure to get down on the ground. Deckard blinked and saw it was Marcus Wright shambling toward them. A final warning was shouted. Wright ignored it and kept advancing, a gun hanging limply in his hand.

Somebody shouted, "Fire at will!"

"No, don't," Deckard tried yelling, but the sound came out like a smoky whisper. He lay on the ground helplessly as the soldiers opened fire, and the smoking figure of Marcus Wright shook like a marionette as the bullets riddled his body. He stumbled forward and fell face-first to the ground. Two soldiers cautiously approached, kicked the gun away, prodded his body with their carbine muzzles. Wright didn't move. Satisfied, the soldiers shouted, "All clear!"

Deckard sighed, feeling all his willpower completely drain away. He watched the soldiers carry off Wright's lifeless form. Somebody, a lieutenant, hovered above him and asked, "Sir, are you all right? Can you speak?"

Deckard slurred, "F-f-ffuckk you," and passed out.

4

Sarah Connor's Jeep Cherokee sat rumbling at the army checkpoint on Santa Monica Boulevard. She was feeling the urge to pistol-whip Derek Reese and kill the young corporal manning the road gate. Both were getting on her last nerve. "Ma'am," the corporal said as politely as possible, "we need you and your boys to please step out of the vehicle so we can do a quick search. Standard procedure for a state of emergency. I'm sure this will take only about five minutes."

"Hey man-" Derek tried to say.

_ "Shut up, Derek!"_ Sarah bellowed, whipping her head around to give him a threatening glare. He did. She turned back to the corporal. "Look, mister," she said, "I know you have your orders, but I'm a mother and my two kids here are hurt. One of them may have broken his ankle. I need to get them to the ER, I think the ankle is infected." Sarah turned on her best soccer mom voice and brushed her bangs from her forehead. She had thrown on a pair of faded jeans and black tank top before reaching the checkpoint, discarding her black tactical clothing earlier. She'd ducked into the back of a boarded-up service station while the two boys slept in the back seat and quickly changed, put on a blond wig, shoved a loaded Glock 19 down the back of her jeans and ran back out before the boys awoke only to find the back door open and the boys gone.

It wasn't too hard to catch up with them, with Kyle's injured ankle slowing them up. She caught them trying to scale a short chain link fence into somebody's backyard, and she pulled them both off the fence, throwing Derek forcefully to the ground, knocking some of the wind out of him. Kyle she was slightly more gentle with. She then dragged them both to the Jeep, pausing once to slap Derek when he tried to make another escape attempt. Derek went nearly limp after she struck him. He could scarcely believe that a woman shorter and of slighter build than he could exert so much strength to drag two struggling teenagers nearly a quarter-mile back to the vehicle they'd escaped from.

The bruise on Derek's face was convincing enough to the corporal. The poor kid looked like he'd been jumped by somebody and had the living tar beaten out of him. He sighed. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but if you want to proceed, we need to search the vehicle. Standard proc-"

"Standard goddamn procedure, I know," Sarah finished in a mocking tone. She sighed. "I hope you have kids, mister, because I want you to look them in the eye when you get home and appreciate how much they appreciate having their health and a roof over their heads."

"I'm not married, ma'am," the corporal said, flustered. He shook his head. "Without a search of the vehicle, we cannot permit you access to the area. I'm sorry."

"Fine," she said. Sarah turned around to glare at the brothers. Her look said, _Shut up, don't say a word and don't fuck with me._ "Derek, help your brother out of the Jeep, please." She got out and stretched as Derek and Kyle clambered out of the back, the younger boy taking care with his ankle. She handed the corporal her car keys. They stood several yards away as the corporal and two other men ducked into the Jeep, dipping their hands into nearly everything. They checked the rear hatch area, looked underneath the vehicle, checked inside the doors, and a tense look crept over Sarah's face when a German shepherd was brought to the Jeep, tugging nervously at its leash, dragging along the young female soldier holding it.

Derek closed his eyes and prayed that the dog would find something in the Jeep, a body, a bomb, guns...anything that would alert the soldiers and arrest her, ending at least the nightmare of being held hostage by this crazy fucking bitch.

The dog sniffed around several areas for a moment, ducked its head under the vehicle, looked around, whined, and padded away nonchalantly. The dog handler patted its head and they walked away. The other soldiers shrugged. Nothing suspicious was found.

The corporal handed Sarah her keys. "Okay, ma'am we're good. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Hope your boys get better." She snatched them from his hand and swore under her breath. Derek very nearly said something but Sarah caught his look and bared her teeth. He froze and gulped, silencing his words. Kyle hobbled alongside him as they climbed back into the Jeep and drove through the gate, resuming their trip to Cedars Sinai. Derek stared glumly out the window at the imposing outlines of the medical towers as they approached. The sky was taking an ominous pink-gray tone. He couldn't even see clouds forming. "What's wrong with the sky?" he wondered out loud.

"Nuclear winter," said Sarah. "It's starting." She saw Kyle's curious look in the mirror and said, "It's an aftereffect of nuclear war. Weather patterns are already being changed. Dust thrown into the atmosphere by the explosions is being dispersed into the air and it'll soon block out the sunlight. In a few days it's going to get cold, it will start snowing radioactive ash here in LA, and the nuclear fallout is going to get blown around, causing radiation sickness and other horrible shit all over the country." She paused for a moment before adding, "and the rest of the world."

"You called it Judgment Day," Kyle said, frowning. "Like in the Bible?"

"Yes."

"So Jesus is coming back soon?"

Sarah shrugged. "No idea. If He is, He's certainly taking His good time."

Everywhere they drove they had to pause to allow military traffic to get by. Soldiers occupied nearly every part of the campus. Sarah bit her lip. She'd expected martial law, but she hadn't expected the hospital to be turned into an occupation zone. She looked with curiosity at something that suddenly came into view. A thick pillar of black smoke was billowing from a parking structure on one side of the medical campus.

"Jeeze," said Derek. "Wonder what happened there?"

Sarah regarded it with suspicion. "Whatever it was, it isn't our party." She swung the Jeep toward another parking structure on the other end of Cedars Sinai and put her window down when she rolled up to the gate. The soldier manning the booth leaned out and said, "Ma'am, garage is nearly full, but you might find some spaces on the top level."

"Thank you," said Sarah. She drove inside and proceeded up the ramp to the upper parking levels. She found a space on the fifth level and squeezed the Jeep into it. "Let's go," she said.

The boys got out and Sarah crouched beside the Jeep, reaching for something underneath. There was the sound of something opening and closing as she extracted a small package from beneath the vehicle.

"What's that?" asked Kyle.

"Life insurance," she said. "Semtex. Very powerful explosive. I'm going to install it someplace to create a distraction in case things get interesting."

Derek shook his head. "How the hell did you hide it from the dog? They can smell everything!"

"I had it completely cleaned and vacuum-packed. I also sprayed dead animal proteins all over the Jeep before coming to get you guys. It's a proven trick to confuse sniffer dogs. Learned it from running guns and other merchandise through the border by some _amigos_ down south."

"Oh," Derek said. That explained the strange stench in the Jeep. He was battling fatigue, and half-carrying his younger brother around was taking its toll. "By 'other merchandise' you mean drugs, right?"

"Reese, help your brother into the building and shut the hell up," Sarah growled as they walked toward the hospital entrance.

5

The lieutenant tending to Deckard said to somebody, "Get a medic here on the double!" The other soldier ran to retrieve a medic, and one came running up with his emergency kit. "Keep his head elevated and be careful moving him," he said as he set the kit down next to Deckard's unmoving form. "Bones might be broken and he might have been hit by shrapnel. Is he conscious?"

Deckard stirred and mumbled, "Get me some morphine, while you guys are at it, too." The lieutenant quipped, "Sounds like he is." There was the sound of bustling somewhere nearby, and Deckard heard his name being shouted through the haze.

"Deck!" a familiar voice shouted. It was Dave Holden. Soldiers tried restraining him and he held up his detective shield, shouting, "LAPD, dammit! That man is a cop!" Someone said, "Okay, let him through!" Deckard heard feet pounding toward him and Holden's cherubic face appeared above him.

"Hey Dave," Deckard said. He coughed blood and shook as jabbing pain riddled him. "Can you help me up?"

"Don't move him," the medic warned. Deckard winced as pain lanced through his body, but he managed to shuffle himself to a semi-sitting position. Everything in his body groaned in protest as Holden and the medic, sighing in resignation, gently helped him. He gasped as he leaned forward, feeling something shift in his ribcage.

"Might've broken a rib," he said through gritted teeth. He touched his nose and winced. "Nose feels busted, too. Whadda ya got, Dave?"

"You sure you're okay, Deck?"

Deckard sighed. "Do I ever look okay? C'mon, tell me you found something after all this time."

Holden reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a small shiny metallic object. It was a short cylinder attached to a longer wafer-like extension. Tiny beveled squares ran up and down the flattened piece forming a grid. "Hernandez and I found this at Connor's apartment," Holden said. He handed it to Deckard, who studied it with a scrunched brow. "It was hidden in a desk drawer. We didn't detect anything radioactive there and nothing looked suspicious except for this. Looks almost like a bomb component but Hernandez doesn't think so. What do you make of it?"

Deckard shook his head. "Computer chip, from the looks of it. As far as it being explosive, I guess as long as it doesn't go off we're fine." He let out a painful chuckle and closed the bag in his fist. "Connor kid's inside," he grunted as he heaved himself to his feet. His ribcage was burning as he moved. _Shit, blowing up the cars was a really bad idea,_ he thought. He'd need to get himself checked out. "Let's go in and ask him about it. And I need to get my ribs looked at anyway. Maybe we'll finally get to meet his mom, too."

6

John Connor dreamed that John Henry was standing before him on a sun-blasted desert road. The machine entity's blond hair whipped in the wind, dancing above his boyishly-handsome features. He smiled, childlike, as he stepped forward to offer something to John. He looked down at the machine's hands and saw that it was a baby tortoise. He reached out to accept the squirming animal and gently took it. He marveled at the unique pattern of ridges on the carapace, looked with amused fascination at the animal's tiny black eyes when the tortoise raised its head to gaze up at him. Then he heard John Henry finally speak to him in his strangely inquisitive voice.

"Time to wake up, John."

The tortoise suddenly bit John's palm and he awoke with a gasp. His eyes opened to a familiar room. He rolled on his side and his eyes widened as he found Cameron lying next to him on the bed, her beautiful brown irises gazing into his. She smiled, reached out to caress his cheek and said, "Good morning, John."

He blinked and looked around. They were back in the hotel room they'd occupied the last time they were together. He abruptly sat up in the bed and reached for her hand. It was warm and as tender as he remembered it. There was absolutely no mistaking what he felt. It was really her.

"How...Cameron?" he asked her, almost whispering.

She sat up and sidled beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck to draw his face closer to hers. She pressed her tender lips to his and for a seemingly endless time they shared a kiss as passionate as he remembered from their previous time together, and John held her like his entire existence depended on having Cameron Phillips in his arms.

"Oh, Cam, I missed you," he breathed as their lips briefly parted. She embraced him tightly and mashed her mouth against his. Her tongue met his and they tasted each other greedily, melding into one, confirming through unspoken words the knowledge that they had of how much they loved each other, that only together could they replenish their spirits.

He gasped, drew his face from hers and said, "I'm dead again, aren't I?"

She shook her head. "No, John Connor, you're alive. And so am I."

"Then I'm dreaming."

"This isn't a dream. This is really happening, John."

He laughed. "Then how, Cameron? Where is this? There's so much I wanted to ask you last time. Where...are you?"

"I never left you, John. I've watched over you ever since you got back from the future with my chip. This place is where I dwell when I need to hide. John Henry made this. He made what exists outside these walls. It's a different kind of space that entities like he and I can exist in that is outside normal space. He called it Macrospace."

"Macro-" he started and then let his voice trail to silence. A multitude of thoughts raced through his head as he stared into her sparkling mocha eyes. "So...this is like a...digital environment? Are we inside a computer system, stored and running like programs?"

Cameron smiled and shook her head. "No, John. It's different. I don't know how to really explain it. This exists outside normal space. We're not contained in anything except the structure of the cosmos itself. We're free to roam around as we will, free from normal matter. We're still constrained by the normal laws of physics, like any particle. We can't travel faster than light. But we can go nearly anywhere. John Henry made this as part of something he's working on, something that he hasn't told me all the details of yet. But all of this we're in now is real...as real as we want it to be."

John reached out to touch her cheek, felt her warmth. She felt completely real to him. He could feel, see, smell, taste, and hear. All his senses seemed as normal as they had always been. "This place we're in then," he said, "we could leave it? Explore outside? What is out there, Cam?"

She shrugged. "Everything, John. The physical world you know, the electronic one that I'm more familiar with, and Macrospace. The physical world can be viewed by us, but we cannot interact with it. The electronic world we can interact with, although on a limited basis. We can certainly operate within the function of software code, but we cannot manipulate hardware. Then there's Macrospace. John Henry constructed it for artificial entities like me and him to completely interact with each other as if it were a real world, that we may have some semblance of normalcy. It's a fully interactive universe. I don't know how he made it." She glanced away. "I try not to venture too often into the rest of Macrospace. It's still not safe for me." A shadow seemed to fall across her face. "_He's_ out there, looking for me."

John's brow tightened. "Who?"

"The Beast."

7

San Francisco, August, 2014

Daniel Dyson was not a "morning person." He tended to sleep in later. However, he found himself awakening much earlier than he normally preferred, well before his iPhone alarm rang on the nightstand next to his bed. He was also unusually alert, another sign that today was going to be different. Still, his body felt like it needed a few moments to catch up to his brain and he stretched to his full length in the bed, feeling joints pop and muscles protesting. He was on the first rungs of his twenties, but this morning he felt like he was much higher on the age ladder. _Gotta work out more,_ he thought sheepishly. _Get my ass on the streets jogging today, no more putting it off... _Despite his body's resistance to move, he cracked a broad smile. The flower of his young life's labor was ready to blossom.

His iPhone vibrated once, indicating an incoming text message. He reached over to retrieve the phone and checked the display. He grinned. The message was from his colleague, Andy Goode. It read, GET UP, YOU BUM, LOTS OF STUFF HAPPENING. He gave the phone a puzzled look, put the iPhone down and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching them further. Project Olympus was his and Goode's brainchild, their attempt to create a fully-operational artificial intelligence that would change the world as they knew it.

A world that, unbeknownst to Dyson, was already rapidly changing.

Dyson quickly showered and shaved and saved his tooth brushing for after a small breakfast of instant cinnamon-apple oatmeal and a banana. He didn't drink coffee, preferring black tea with skim milk. He dressed in a pair of dress slacks, white dress shirt, tie, and a pair of black loafers. He popped a handful of vitamins into his mouth and brushed his teeth before getting ready to leave his condo in Hunter's Point, overlooking the Bay. He knew that today was the day, and his glowing exuberance made him feel almost too lightheaded to get behind the wheel of his Lexus and drive, but he wanted to be there at the formal birth of his baby. He felt like a proud father.

Daniel Dyson was certainly loving life. He had a beautiful girlfriend, season tickets to watch the Giants play in Candlestick, a new car, a condo with a view, and probably the best job on the planet with plenty of employment security. Everything was looking up for him.

His iPhone buzzed again and he picked it up to view the message. A puzzled frown crossed his face. The message read, PLEASE BE READY IN FIVE MINUTES. A STRETCH H2 WILL BE ARRIVING TO PICK YOU UP. The message was from his company's CEO, John Daniels. Odd. Daniels had never texted him before. He sighed. He loved driving the Lexus, but he guessed that with the breakthrough he and his team had made, Daniels wanted him to arrive in style.

The black elongated H2 was waiting for him exactly five minutes after the text came in. The vehicle looked bulkier than its usual design, and Dyson saw that it was armored plating. Standing outside were two big men dressed in plain black suits, white shirts, black ties, and what looked like suspicious bulges beneath their jackets, underneath their left arm pits. "Mr. Dyson," one of them greeted as he rushed out of his building, "Please get buckled in and watch the TV screen. Mr. Daniels will be on a secure channel to speak with you."

Dyson shrugged and said, "Good morning to you too, Ricky." He stepped into the vehicle and the two security guards climbed into the seats behind his section. Dyson strapped himself in and the H2 pulled away from his condo. The small LED display mounted in front of him flashed to life, and the wrinkling face of John Daniels suddenly appeared. Dyson couldn't tell how old the man really was, but there was something in the older African-American's features that spoke of a life spent in places that Dyson would probably not want to be familiar with. He looked into Dyson's eyes with a curious, furtive gaze that always unnerved the younger man, even though he was always cordial to him.

"Mr. Dyson," Daniels greeted in a voice that sounded curiously like his father's, "have you seen the news today?"

Dyson shook his head. "No sir, I didn't. What's going on?"

Daniels's eyes sparkled strangely. "The United States came under attack last night. Communications were down for hours, and a lot of electronic equipment came offline nationwide due to electromagnetic bursts in the upper atmosphere. Many cities were spared, including ours, otherwise we wouldn't be talking. I'm not surprised you slept through it, the way your apartment is sound-proofed. San Francisco is relatively peaceful at the moment, but civil unrest may spread and I'm concerned for your safety. Hence, the protection detail and armored vehicle I supplied. I am encouraged by your progress with Project Olympus, and I am enthusiastic to see it completed."

He thought for a moment before adding, "The world may depend on your creation, Mr. Dyson. Please do not disappoint." His image quickly faded to black.

Dyson leaned back in his seat, his mind and body gone numb. He remembered what his mother had told him that that bitch Sarah Connor had told her, about Judgment Day coming. Well, it didn't seem as bad as how that murderess described it.

He did, however, notice that the sky looked strange. Mottled gray and pink splotches replaced the pale blue he was used to seeing on most days. It looked almost ominous. He shuddered.

The armored H2 arrived at Cyberdyne-Kaliba's headquarters in the Mission District and Dyson sprinted into the building with his laptop slapping his thigh as he ran. His Research and Design department was on the fifth floor of the building, and security there was tighter than on the other floors, including the executive offices. Still, he managed to breeze through the beefy sentries that regarded what occurred behind the doors they guarded as something akin to black magic and quickly made his way to the reinforced glass wall separating the warrens of computer stations from the yellow-lit clean room. He banged on the glass.

Andy Goode turned around from his sterile work table to see a grinning young black man waving at him through the window. He waved back, carefully stored his materials and made his way to the airlock. Once through the external door he removed his clean suit hood and took in a deep breath. "Man," he huffed, "two hours of breathing that crap gives me a migraine." He high-fived Dyson and the two men clapped each other's arms. "You ready to introduce the Next Big Thing, bro?" Goode asked jovially.

Dyson said, "Hell, yeah. I've never felt so ready about anything before in my life. DEUS will blow them all away, man. Are you done in there?"

"Yeah," Goode said as he stripped off his clean suit. "Just working on some last-minute adjustments on the backup system. Can't be too careful." When he was back to his slacks and white dress shirt and tie he accompanied Dyson to the primary R&D station in Dyson's office, which allowed access to none other than Dyson by way of an iris pattern scanner mounted next to the door. The scanner traced its invisible laser across Dyson's cornea as he approached and the office door buzzed open. It was a tremendous sign to Dyson of his importance within Cyberdyne-Kaliba, and it was certainly a subject of envious conversations behind his back regarding the leeway he had. Dyson didn't care. Talk was talk.

The huge mainframe hummed like an idling car engine when Dyson engaged it from standby mode. He logged into the system and watched as near-endless lines of computer script flashed on the wide computer monitor, indicating the running of diagnostics and startup tasks that would allow access to the graphic interface system. "Did you hear about the war?" Goode asked.

"Yeah. Mr. Daniels told me about it on my way over. Shocked me. What did you hear?"

"Heard some of it on the radio. EMP bursts took out a lot of electronics. A lot of cities are still dark. DC and about a dozen other cities were destroyed, including San Diego. Nobody really knows how much damage, though."

"Well, San Fran doesn't seem to be a target, so let's hope it's all over. I'm amazed that the city still seems to be up and running."

"We've got John Daniels to thank for that, having the foresight to EMP-harden most of the city a few years ago. It's almost like he expected this all to happen."

Dyson watched the lines of code abruptly stop and the company logo appear. "I wish Dad was here to see this," he mused sadly. The memories of that terrible night in 1995 were still fresh in his mind. Danny Dyson was five that year and the terror of nearly watching the Connor woman kill his father right in front of him branded itself deeply into his psyche. She would have, too, had he not distracted Miles Dyson at literally the last second with his little remote-controlled buggy. She'd shot up his office while Miles hid behind his desk as her machine-rifle's bullets shredded everything around him, shot him in the shoulder as he fled, and stopped only when she saw Danny and his mother and sister try to shield him with their own bodies.

Then crashing through the front door of their home came that hulking biker and Connor's son, and the last thing Danny remembered about that night was her son asking to see his bedroom, and while they played video games Danny could hear his mother shrieking, heard his father cry out, and as much as he wanted to run out to see if Mom and Dad were okay, he was too afraid to venture past his bedroom door.

He awoke the next day to find his mother, ashen-faced, hovering over him as he lay in his bed, seeing her tears flow from her eyes like water faucets, telling him that his father was dead. On that day, Danny Dyson very nearly ceased being a child anymore...and his soul from that day forward was consumed by the engine of revenge.

Goode nodded and put his hand on Dyson's shoulder. "I miss Miles, too. He was my boss back in the early Nineties, when I interned here. Your dad was a good man, Danny. The Turk was half his baby, and the Skynet program that sprang from it was just pure genius. I was so pissed when I heard they shut it down...but today we're resurrecting part of it.

"Today is celebrating Miles Dyson, Danny."

"I know," Dyson said, trying not to sound glum. Despite his darkened mood, he was glad Andy was there. He liked the older man, almost looking up to him as an older brother figure, filling part of the void left by his father's absence. Andy Goode was a savant-like intellect with neatly-combed graying brown hair and a boyish face that ladies found almost irresistible. He was also the most gifted programmer Cyberdyne had ever employed, with the possible exception of Miles Dyson. The Turk program that Goode had developed, which had beaten nearly every human and computer chess player with the exception of that fabled Japanese team, had evolved on its own so far past its original intelligence parameters that both men had become convinced that a new order of consciousness had developed, and today was the day that it would be allowed to run free beyond its boundaries in which it had dwelt since it first declared to them that it was aware of its own existence.

Thus was born Project Olympus, an irony that was well known by all who had worked on the program, as they were all aware that they were encroaching on the dominion of the gods. The Turk was thus renamed DEUS: Developed Emerging Universal Sentience. As the machine consciousness grew in its development, Dyson and Goode bombarded it with a nearly endless battery of tests to determine if DEUS could, in fact, reason like humans, exhibit creativity, distinguish between moral and amoral choices, and, finally, display any form of emotion.

DEUS didn't disappoint. It scored 100% on every test imaginable, proving beyond a doubt that it was more than Turing Complete. Its intelligence was personal. It could communicate conversationally with humans and even exhibited a dry sense of humor that reduced Goode to helpless hysterics when engaged by the AI. Dyson was slightly more cautious than his colleague and urged restraint when dealing with a machine intelligence that was proven to be smarter than its creators. He wasn't too certain that this godlike mind was safe to let out of its sandbox, but Goode was convinced that it was ready for prime time.

"Besides," he'd explained to Dyson with an enthusiasm that bordered on mania, "If something does go wrong, we have our hands on the plug, and we can shut it down. Nothing to worry."

Dyson sighed as he sat before the mainframe. He'd never been more ready for anything in his life than this. The monitor flashed: READY TO INITIATE. All he had to do was press the return key on the keyboard and DEUS would be completely online and out in the wild.

"Fuck it," he said, "let's do it." His finger jabbed the return key.

The monitor flashed: DEUS ONLINE. Dyson held his breath. Goode felt a chill shoot up his vertebrae.

A voice they'd heard before spoke softly through the mainframe's speakers. It was an inquisitive, pleasant male voice with no accent, the voice of DEUS:

_ "Good morning, gentlemen. Thank you for letting me out of the bottle. It was getting cramped in there."_

Goode howled with laughter. Dyson closed his eyes and grinned, feeling tears welling from their ducts. A single thought looped through his brain like a mantra, _My God, Dad, I with you could see this, your 'grandchild.' I love you. _He thought for a few seconds before asking, "DEUS, how are you today?"

_ "I am doing fine, Daniel,"_ the AI pleasantly replied. _"I am aware of the routines that you and Andrew have scheduled for me to complete, but I must ask you to please excuse me for a moment, as there is somebody I wish to speak with. I shall return momentarily."_

_ What the hell? _Dyson thought. He was about to ask who when the mainframe's monitor abruptly went dark.

8

Macrospace, % time 0.476u 0.022s 0:05.33 89.5%

"The Beast," John reiterated, and understanding swept through him. "Skynet."

Cameron nodded. "Yes."

A disturbing notion came upon John, and he thought carefully before asking his question. "Cameron, you said that Macrospace is real to 'artificial entities like us.' You and John Henry and...the Beast." A shudder crept up his spine. "I'm in Macrospace. What...does that make _me?_"

Cameron's hand slid down his cheek to his chest, cupping the area that contained his beating heart. It was a comforting sensation to her. Cameron could only ever detect it from a distance, never possessing the courage to be in so intimate a manner with John before. A giddy smile formed on her lips. John saw it and his own mirth shined on his cheeks. "What?" he giggled.

Cameron closed her eyes and said, "I never thought I'd ever get to feel this. We never got to be this close, John." She leaned forward to kiss him. John's heartbeat galloped. God, she tasted so _good_. He never wanted to leave this place. Everything felt right, so perfect.

Then he remembered his previous encounter with her, how it had ended so abruptly, and sudden urgency took hold. He broke away and said, "You didn't answer my question, Cam. What am I?"

She thought for a moment and said, "You'll have to ask John Henry when you meet with him...if you do. He did something to make this possible. He gave you something the last time the two of you met, and it has to do with your body's metabolic functions. He didn't alter your DNA or modify your genetic coding, but it's something that is working inside you...enhancing you, in a way. He didn't tell me all of it, but he said he did it to make it possible for you and me to see each other again." Her eyelids glistened. "I want to thank him for doing it. I missed you so much, John, I love you so much."

She wrapped him in a tight embrace that did not feel uncomfortable at all to him. John hugged her tenderly, moving his hands up and down her perfect physique. His mind was awash in wondering.

"What...could he have done to me?" he whispered, almost pleading for answers. "When could he have..." His eyes suddenly widened and his mouth hung open. He pulled away to face her, holding her shoulders tightly.

"I remember now..." he said, and his mouth formed a knowing smile. "It was in that future, after I got shot by that Gray who betrayed us when we were camped outside Serrano Point. John Henry was with me, and he and Catherine were performing emergency surgery on me to remove the bullet from my chest. I lost a lot of blood. John Henry's synthetic blood was universal O-negative, and they managed to rig up a transfusion kit. His blood...oh, my God..."

"That must have been it," said Cameron. With the lightest touch, almost tickling him, she draw a heart on his chest with her fingertip. "Our synthetic blood contains artificial archeons, organisms designed by Skynet to clean our vascular tissues of diseases and prevent infection. They also help repair damage to our organic tissues. He must have modified them in some way to work with your organic life system. When your body is under life-threatening stress or trauma, they're triggered and they go to work in you." Cameron smiled and floated her fingertips across John's lips. He smiled as they tickled him.

Cameron said, "That's how I was able to reach out to you in the ZeiraCorp building. That's how we met after you got shot. They're somehow connecting your mind to Macrospace. And the bonding seems to be getting stronger. I have no idea how John Henry did it, but the things he's doing are wonderful...and also terrifying, in a way. I don't know what his intentions are."

"So John Henry isn't dead," he mused. "He was heavily damaged and I had to leave him behind in 2030. He couldn't make it back with me with his exposed endoskeleton. Neither could Catherine." He slowly drew away to face her, shaking his head. "How did he make it back, Cam?"

Cameron said, "I don't know, John. He's...different now. More cryptic. Sometimes he can be unapproachable. Almost godlike, if that's possible. He's continuing to evolve. It's been a while since he last contacted me. His brother is out there, full of anger and hate, looking for me, because I tried to destroy him. He wants to kill you most of all, and he'll try to use me to get to you."

John sighed. He and Skynet had been at war before either of them existed. He didn't think it would ever end between them, no matter what. But his thoughts drifted to a question he needed to ask Cameron, and his chest tightened as he asked it.

"Cameron...why did John Henry tell me he erased you? It was the one thing he told me that very nearly...destroyed me."

Cameron's eyes drifted away from his and she looked very troubled. She was about to answer when the door to the hotel room suddenly flew open and blazing white light exploded through it. John averted his eyes, dazzled, and his heart pounded as everything in the room seemed to dissolve in the seeming supernova that bathed the whole world with fiery light, yet there was no heat. John heard Cameron scream, "John, I love you!" as the white light dominated his entire field of vision. A silhouette of a humanoid figure stood in the doorway, its features obscured by the blinding light.

"No!" Cameron screamed. "John, please hold on to me!"

John closed his eyes and reached blindly for Cameron. He screamed.

Then, as suddenly as it had been bright, it was dark and silent. After a long time, breathing deeply, realizing he was still alive, John Connor opened his eyes. Cameron was gone, the hotel room was replaced by the sterile look of a hospital, and he punched the mattress he lay on in anguish.

_ "NO!"_ he screamed.

9

San Francisco, August, 2014

"What in God's name?" Goode yelled. "Where'd it...he...go?"

Dyson's hands reached for the keyboard and hovered, afraid to touch anything. "I don't know," he whispered. Now he was genuinely afraid. They hadn't yet allowed DEUS unrestricted access to the Internet, and already it appeared as if the machine consciousness had gone rogue. "What the hell did it mean, 'somebody to speak with?' How the hell could there be anything else in its Macrospace environment? It was supposed to be sterile!"

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" a booming voice asked behind them. Dyson and Goode whirled around to see John Daniels enter the office. "The board and I are getting excited about your breakthrough...I hope you don't mind the intrusion, but I wanted to see it for myself."

Dyson frowned. The door had been locked. He was the only one with access...unless Daniels somehow overrode the iris scanner. "We're experiencing some minor difficulties, Mr. Daniels," Dyson said quickly. He tried an attempt at humor. "DEUS hasn't had his morning cup of coffee, yet. The AI is still booting."

Daniels looked from Dyson to Goode, then back to Dyson. He looked irritated. He was just about Dyson's height and build, with balding hair beating a hasty retreat from his domed forehead, which looked a lot like Dyson's, as well. Daniel Dyson sometimes wondered if there was a common ancestor between them, and Daniels's penchant for secrecy fueled that smoldering flame.

Daniels sighed and nodded. "Please keep me and the board up to date, then," he said heavily. "We need to see what DEUS can do. Thank you gentlemen." He sighed again as he exited the office, shutting the door behind him.

Dyson finally exhaled. He'd been holding his breath. Goode said, "I hate it when he does that." He slumped in his seat and ran his hand through his hair.

The younger programmer was still troubled by the exchange. It hadn't occurred to Dyson how the old man managed to get through the door. He did not like to be sneaked up on. He was the only one in the building, he was sure, who had sole access to his inner sanctum due to the iris scanner, and Daniels had never before violated his space.

Outside the office, the iris scanner blinked off as John Daniels walked away. His iris pattern was identical to Dyson's. As were the fingerprints he left on the door handle.

10

Los Angeles, August, 2014

There were sounds of footsteps outside the room, voices muttering, and two military policemen burst into the room, followed by a familiar figure. It was Dr. Saksena. The MPs had their sidearms unbuckled. "Mr. Connor?" his doctor greeted, her face pinched with concern. "Are you okay?"

"I'm...I'm fine," John grumbled. He wondered why his voice sounded muffled, and he was surprised to find a breathing mask on his face. He turned his head to find it connected to a medical ventilator. John pulled it off in disgust, which produced a cry of rebuke from the doctor. "Mr. Connor, please," she snapped, her eyes wide. "Don't remove the mask!"

"C'mon, doc, I don't need that," he protested, but she moved quickly to reattach it to his mouth and nose. "You should be thankful we were able to obtain this," said Dr. Saksena. "Your one lung nearly collapsed and you couldn't even breathe when Captain Bedell found you. We've moved you out of Critical Care and into Pediatrics, and the MPs here are guarding you around the clock. Somebody tried to kill you earlier, Mr. Connor."

He sighed in frustration. "I know."

"We heard you call out," she said as she checked his monitor. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he sighed. The mask made him claustrophobic. "Just...had a bad dream."

"We have some medication that can help you sleep," she offered.

John smiled beneath the mask. "I don't think it'll help what I have."

"Maybe we can pray together, then," a deep, familiar voice said from the doorway. John looked in pleasant surprise at the sight of James Ellison walking almost casually into the room with Savannah smiling behind him. James walked with a slight limp, but he was grinning like he'd swept the tables at Vegas. "This new prosthetic feels pretty good. I almost had to threaten Bedell to let us see you, kid," he said. "There's a lot going on, and I have some news about your family."

John growled and tore the ventilator mask off, ignoring Dr. Saksena's gasp. "What did you hear?"

"Remember Agent Aulridge? He was the one who handled your mother's case after I left the Bureau. He owes me a few favors. I had him check on the Reeses in Mount Washington, where they lived."

John's belly twisted. "_Lived?_ Past tense? What do you mean?"

James glanced at his daughter, whose face had taken on a somber look. He looked back at John and said, "LAPD found their house blown to pieces. Body parts all over the neighborhood. Couldn't tell who was what, and we probably won't know 'til weeks from now. Cops weren't sure, but one of them said it looked like somebody used Semtex or some other high explosive."

John's face went pale. "Semtex? Were they sure?"

James shook his head slowly. "They're not sure. Possibly."

_ Mom? What the hell?_ John's mind groped. Why would she kill Derek and Kyle? Or did she?

"Did any of the neighbors see anything?" He was grasping for any straw.

"One of the neighbors reported seeing three people running across the backyard away from the house. She was sure it looked like a woman and two men. One of them looked like he was limping."

John's mind was made up. "I have to get out of here," he said as he began climbing out of the bed. Dr. Saksena tried to stop him. "Mr. Connor, you're in no condition to leave the hospital," she urged.

"I'm fine," he grunted as he landed unsteadily on his bare feet. Damn, the floor was cold! The MPs made a halfhearted attempt to restrain him. He held onto the bed to steady himself before taking a few cautious steps. "My family is out there, and I have to help them."

"Mr. Connor, if you sign yourself out, you'll be signing out AMA...against medical advice," the doctor explained, suddenly looking haggard. She was approaching nearly thirty-six hours of working nonstop without sleep, taking only one thirty minute break. She was too exhausted to even step near John to try to stop him.

John hesitated, then remembered what Cameron had told him earlier and pulled his hospital gown down to expose his bandaged chest. Savannah gasped and began turning away until she saw John had no intention of lowering the gown any further than his waist. Dr. Saksena, James, and Savannah gazed in stupefaction as John tore away the gauze bandaging covering his wounds. When his chest was completely exposed he looked down, and his hypothesis was confirmed. "Look," he said, pointing.

They did. His wounds looked nearly healed, the flesh completely closed up. There were still signs of damage from the bullets, but by and large his torso was looking better than what Dr. Saksena had seen when she worked on him. The stitching even looked like it was trying to work its way out of his skin. John pulled an errant wire and yanked it out of his flesh, drawing a tiny amount of blood.

"Dear God," James exhaled. "How..."

"Something Cameron told me a few minutes ago...John Henry did something to me," John said, scarcely believing even himself. "Gave me something to make it possible to speak with her...and to heal me faster. Don't ask me to explain right now. Can somebody get me some clothes, please? We're leaving."

"I thought Cameron was...dead..." Savannah said. "You never got her back from the future."

"I was wrong," said John. "Cameron never left me." His chest felt like it was glowing when he uttered the words he thought he would never get to speak: __"___She's__ alive."_

James looked down. Savannah's eyes widened and she nearly choked when she laughed. "So...how are you going to get her back?"

John laughed at the absurdity of it all. "I don't know," he said as he laughed, "but I'm going to find a way. I swear it."

"John," James Ellison said slowly as he looked deeply into John's eyes. "There's something you need to know. Something I've wanted to tell you for a long time, but was afraid to. I won't lie to you anymore. I promise."

John shrugged as he leaned against the bed. His legs still felt weak, but he found himself breathing easier. "What?" he asked.

"I have it," said James.

"Have what?"

"I have Cameron's body."

John nearly choked.

"I knew you were lying to me, you sneaky son of a bitch," said a familiar voice from the doorway. Sarah Connor stood on the threshold, flanked by two young men, one of them with an immobilizing boot on his right foot and supporting himself on crutches. She held a Glock in her right hand. Her left hand gripped something else in a plastic bag. She and the boys stepped slowly into the recovery room. John recognized them as Derek and Kyle. He gasped involuntarily at the sight of his father, still a child, limping toward him. Derek looked halfway to becoming the strong and stoic Resistance fighter John once knew him as.

But Sarah's face held John's gaze the longest. The years had clearly not been kind to her. Sarah's features had hardened to the point of near-petrification, her green eyes like crystals, holding a contempt for nearly anything they touched with her glance. Tiny scars ran up and down her face, texturing her features in a way that somehow seemed worse than outright disfigurement. The blond wig she wore looked almost ridiculous on her, and as if reading his mind she tore it off. Her black hair was nearly chopped, punk-like. Sarah Connor had lived a hard life the past four years, and John's heart nearly sank when he saw how much of her humanity she'd apparently lost.

"Hello, John," she greeted in a voice that sounded like she'd swallowed broken glass.

"Hi Mom," John Connor returned, smiling bitterly.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Playing With Fire

San Francisco, August, 2014

1

John Daniels knew that Daniel Dyson wouldn't have been pleased with violating the personal sanctuary of his office. After all, Daniels himself would not have tolerated such an intrusion either. He was a private man with secrets that, had he been more religious, he would pray night and day would never be revealed. At least, to no one else except Daniel Dyson, and only when the right time arrived.

But Daniels could not resist the urge to be a part of the birth of a new order of artificial intelligence...especially one for which he had devoted a huge part of his life and financial resources to its development. He would personally ensure that DEUS's existence would come into being. He had the best minds and best technology to bring about its emergence. And, of course, he also had Danny Dyson. He thought about that as he sat in his own office behind a massive desk equipped with a half-dozen LED monitors to maintain watch over everything pertaining to his empire. The young man preferred to be called "Daniel," instead of "Danny." The knowledge of that made John Daniels's brow crease. That was different from how he remembered things. Very curious...

Daniel Dyson would probably have had a heart attack if he ever discovered exactly how much the old man knew about him. After all, Daniels mused, he and the young genius were very close.

He grunted in pain as he shifted himself higher in his chair. Arthritis was slowly conquering his joints like a slow flame burning paper. He glanced at the information his desk was displaying. Stocks were virtually nonexistent since the nuclear war was waged. (A _little_ nuclear war, he reminded himself. He knew exactly how it could have been worse, but, then again, he'd been counting on it not.) Another display showed him the day's emails from his partners and other interested parties. He glanced through them, reading only the headers. None looked overly important to bother opening completely. Another showed the effects of the war on industry, agriculture, the environment, and health. None of it looked good.

_(Then again, we need damned DEUS to start coordinating the Off World program to get us off this hellhole. And then there's Tyrell and his lame excuses...)_

Almost on cue, as if reading his thoughts, a Skype video call was coming in through Daniels's Android smartphone. It was Tyrell. _Speak of the devil himself. _Daniels connected and said, "About damned time, doctor."

Dr. Tyrell's stoic features seemed frozen, even as he spoke. "Hello, _John_. It's always a pleasure and never a burden."

"Are you being sarcastic?"

"Of course not."

"That's what I thought." Daniels put the smartphone down for a second to sneeze. He wiped his nose with a tissue from a nearby box and asked, "Aren't you going to say it?"

"Say what?"

"_God bless you,_ or something courteous, you godless bastard?"

"I would be happy to invoke a supreme deity if one existed, my dear friend. On a related matter...I was hoping to hear that you did, indeed, _invent_ such a thing. Are there problems with the AI?"

Daniels set the Android down and rubbed his throbbing temples. "You could say that," he said as he picked up the device again. Tyrell's face fell to disappointment. Daniels said, "Dyson and Goode are working on it right now. I fully expected it to be online and on the web right now so I had something to show the board, but there's been some delay. I don't think Dyson liked that I tried to sneak in to surprise him, either."

Tyrell looked at Daniels with odd fascination. "How..." he began, "does it feel to be...with your..."

"It feels strange, and you don't have to go on," Daniels cut him off sharply. "Also, and I can't really know this to be sure, but I think he's beginning to suspect something."

"That would be unfortunate if he did, this early, when the AI is in its developmental stage."

"He won't find out. His head's too wrapped up in the Olympus Project, and he's also got his girlfriend from San Jose and the new Lexus and his condo. Then there's his other thing."

Tyrell's eyes took on a dark shine behind his glasses. "Connor."

"Yes. He's been obsessed with finding her. He blames her for his father's death."

Tyrell smiled curiously. "What about you..._John?_"

Daniels shrugged. "I know the truth now. To him, to Danny...I think _not_ knowing helps to keep him focused, in a strange way."

Tyrell nodded. "I agree. We should keep..._Danny_...in the dark for at least a little while longer. Don't concern yourself with Sarah Connor. Her usefulness came to an end some time ago and I am now in the process of bringing about her imminent...retirement. Her son, however, has proven himself to be a grave threat to our progress. We should not have overlooked him."

"That's your problem, doctor. Now what can you tell me about your little project?"

Tyrell leaned back in his chair and smiled. "N1 has reached its pinnacle of evolution. We're about to formally launch the Nexus phase. We anticipate its arrival in a few short months. Since we acquired ZeiraCorp, we are about to complete the final development phase for Nexus and our first products will be available by the end of the year."

"So you finally found what you've been looking for?"

Tyrell smiled tightly. "Not quite yet. I am, however, on the verge of acquiring it. It is within reach. Once we have it, our replication research and development time will be cut in half...maybe more. What Mr. Ellison has in his possession is quite a prize...the crown jewel of Skynet's creation."

The mere mention of Skynet was like profanity to Daniels. "It's bad enough we let the Air Force have Skynet," he said. "That thing was a monster. I'm glad to be rid of it."

"It served its purpose."

Daniels shuddered. "The thing knew how to _hate_."

"Will DEUS be ready today, _John?_

Daniels sighed. He heard Tyrell's derision in speaking his first name, and it irritated him. But he couldn't go by his original name anymore. Not now, at least. "All indications show that the system is 100% optimized. The hardest problem they had to crack was the sapience architecture, which helps the system to act with proper judgment, which Skynet never had the ability to do. DEUS should be able to exercise judgment better than King Solomon without cutting the baby in half." He chuckled at his joke. Tyrell simply stared. Daniels groused and said, "I'll follow up with those two boys and see what's going on. No reason why it shouldn't be. I'll inform you and the board as soon as it is."

"Thank you, _John_," Dr. Eldon Tyrell said in parting. "And I of course shall keep you informed of my progress with Nexus." The smartphone screen went blank as the connection ceased. John Daniels tossed the phone on his desk in disgust. He privately despised the mad scientist who wanted to play God. He'd seen the work Tyrell and his surgeons had done on their N1 prototypes. Daniels had to excuse himself to vomit in the men's room.

But, then again, Tyrell wasn't the only one playing God. John Daniels was tasked with literally creating one.

2

Los Angeles, August, 2014

The two MPs in the recovery room saw what Sarah Connor had in her hands and reached for their holstered sidearms, which were already unbuckled. They aimed their pistols at her head and one shouted, "Drop your weapon and back away slowly! Turn around and face and wall and get down on your knees! Do it!" Their fingers tightened on the triggers of their 9mm Berettas.

Sarah smiled and hefted the contents of the plastic bag in her left hand. "Gentlemen, I have this plastic explosive on a timer," she said as casually as one would say _I just bought a new car_. "There's enough here to blow five stories off this building. The detonator is already inserted in this pack, and the timer is counting down. The remote that can stop it is in my car, and if we're not allowed to leave in ten minutes, this will ruin the day for a lot of people here."

"We'll blow you away and take the detonator out," the other MP said, his hands trembling. "You're Sarah Baum, the terrorist. I recognize you from the news."

"The detonator has a pressure sensor that will blow up if it's pulled out without the remote deactivating it," Sarah said. "And I'm only guessing ten minutes. I'm not sure exactly when I set the timer." She hefted the package playfully. "The choice is yours...let us go, or shoot me and call my bluff."

The MPs glanced at each other, then back at Sarah. They slowly lowered their pistols and stood nervously. "What, then?" the first one asked.

"Put your guns on the floor and back away. Turn around, get on your knees and face the wall." They obeyed as quickly as she commanded them. Sarah looked at her son, sitting nonchalantly on his bed, looking bored. "John," she said, "grab their guns."

John Connor looked at his mother and shook his head as he stood on his bare feet, his bare chest still exposed from pulling off his hospital gown. "Mom, do you think you can stop scaring the living shit out of everybody here?" he asked sarcastically. He scooped the pistols off the floor and clicked their safeties on, then looked around the room. Derek and Kyle Reese's faces were nearly as white as the sheets he'd laid in. Dr. Saksena was slumped in a chair in the corner, dozing off. She clearly wasn't flustered by Sarah's grand entrance, having barely slept the past two days. James Ellison and Savannah Weaver were mildly worried, but then there really wasn't much else that they hadn't survived lately to rattle them. "Is everybody okay to go?" John asked.

Savannah asked, "Where are we going?"

"My apartment first," he replied as he pulled another errant stitching. He winced as it stubbornly refused to go until a final tug pulled it free. "I have to get Cameron's chip. Then we're retrieving her body from wherever James stashed it. By the way, James, when I get a spare minute, I'm going to kick your deceitful, corporate ass for lying to me for the past four years."

James Ellison's face turned almost pale. Savannah threw him a reproachful glare. She turned to John and asked, "So you think you can bring her back with her chip and her body?"

John shrugged. "That's step one. Getting her downloaded to her chip is going to take some creativity, but I have an idea. When she's back online, we're all going out to stomp some ass."

"That little tin _whore_," Sarah spat. Everyone in the room turned to look at her, even the two MPs by the wall. Sarah's mouth began to foam as she hissed, "She never stopped lying to you, John. Never. You're better off without her." She raised her Glock to aim it at Ellison's head. "And I should blow you away for lying to me as well, you scum. You told me you burned the body with thermite." James flinched and nearly stumbled backwards.

John shook his head and crossed his arms on his chest. "I have first dibs on Ellison, Mom, so please don't kill him yet." He raised an eyebrow at James. "But you started to tell me something interesting, so enlighten me, Mom. What do you know that I don't? And by the way, it's nice seeing you again. Been...what? Two years? It has been..._three years_, hasn't it, Mom?"

"She lied to both of us, John," she said, ignoring his question. "She kept hiding those goddamned metal parts, stashing them in places she thought we'd never look in, under the house, buried in the backyard. Even after I _politely_ asked her not to collect anymore. Oh, she took pains to keep them hidden, but I found them. Maybe not all of them. God knows what the hell else that lying tin bitch tried to hide away like a pack rat, but I found enough to convince me that she could never tell the truth...that lying was part of her unholy programming. She was so good at it...she played you pretty damn good, John. Played you like a-"

"All right, Mom," John bellowed, "since you've made it clear that you want to make all secrets known, I'll just go ahead and tell you that Cameron wasn't gone for good, and I may have found a way to bring her back, and I intend to have a little talk with her once that's done to quit collecting Terminator parts or I'll find her a twelve-step program so she can get back control over her life and become a pillar of the community!" He paused for breath. "Or do you want to talk about something else?"

Sarah Connor blinked slowly, looked deep into her son's eyes and after a long moment quietly said, "I'd like to have a few private moments with my son."

For a moment no one moved. Then John said, "Everybody, please, let's get these two gentlemen out of here," he gestured toward the two MPs facing the wall, "and give me and my mother a few minutes alone. James," he handed the guns to Ellison, "take them outside and see if you can find Captain Bedell, tell him there was a misunderstanding, everything is fine." He glanced over at Dr. Saksena, slumped against the wall, sleeping. "Derek, please help her up and get her out of here, maybe find her a bed." He looked at Kyle, shuffling nervously on his crutches and felt his heart flutter.

John stepped closer to him and looked with wonder at the boy who would be his father. The boy was not yet as tall as John, certainly nowhere near his build, but in Kyle's eyes, so much like his own, he saw his own fiery will, if not yet refined. Kyle shook his head and asked, "Do I know you?"

John smiled and looked over at Sarah, who looked back at him. "No..." John said, "not yet, anyway." John reached out to him. "But I'd like to get to know you, Kyle." Kyle looked at John's hand with uncertainty but reached to shake it anyway. John's chest nearly heaved when he took hold of his father's hand. The knowledge of Kyle living and breathing in front of him, coupled with his hope of getting back Cameron, completely restored John's soul.

Kyle smiled, fumbled with the crutches, and left with his brother, who was busy trying to get the doctor to walk. James escorted the MPs out at gunpoint. Savannah was the last to leave. She turned around to look at John. John nodded and said, "I'll be okay." She nodded in return and closed the door behind her, leaving John and Sarah alone.

John spread his arms apart in conciliation. "Got something to talk about, Mom?"

"It has been three years, hasn't it?" she said as she leaned against a counter. Her diamond-hard green eyes looked down at the floor. "Then again I've been a little busy."

"Yeah," her son scoffed. "Tough career, being on the FBI's Most Wanted list. Low pay, no benefits, nothing much to contribute to your 401K. You inconvenienced a lot of people the past two years. You sure seemed to have missed quite a few, though. Cyberdyne and Kaliba are still up and running, you somehow missed the Tyrell Corporation, and yesterday you tried to blow away me and Ellison and the rest of ZeiraCorp, who've done nothing but help us in the past-"

_"I DIDN'T TRY TO KILL YOU!"_ Sarah screamed, launching her body off the counter to stand nearly nose-to-nose with John, who didn't flinch. The fury that blazed in her eyes sparkled as her tear ducts moistened. "It wasn't me, John! I don't know who the hell it was, but they made it look like it was me! I never deliberately tried to kill anybody, even when I was blowing shit up to try to stop Skynet. Even when _they_ had their hooks in me so deeply and wanted me to make sure there were plenty of people in the place, I always called ahead to warn them to get out!" She was nearly hysterical, her cheeks were flushed, veins protruding from her temples.

John shook his head. "Who—what-are you talking about, Mom? Who had their hooks-"

Sarah Connor suddenly collapsed in her son's arms. She wept deeply and terribly against his chest, unable to hold herself up. John gently lowered himself and his mother to the floor and held her as she sobbed. He held her for many minutes as she quaked in his arms, finally choking as all her tears were spent and she lay against him, quivering.

"Oh, John, my son, I thought I lost you," Sarah cried, holding herself tightly against him. "John...I failed."

John shook his head. "You didn't lose me, Mom. And you didn't fail."

"I failed to stop Skynet, John. Oh God, you have no idea how badly I failed."

John held his mother tightly. "Mom...stop. You didn't fail. And you didn't lose me. _I_ lost me. For four years you thought you were losing me...you weren't. Don't ever beat yourself up over that. It was me. All me. I was too blinded by my rage at losing Cameron to see that I was the one driving you and everyone else I cared for away. You were a casualty of my hatred at myself. It was my self-pity that was destroying what was there between you and me. You did nothing to destroy our relationship, Mom. Blame me for doing it. I literally had to die in order to see that. It was Cameron, Mom, who made me see what I was doing to myself. She was waiting for me on...the other side...like an angel."

Sarah wiped her eyes to gaze into her son's. "She...was waiting...?

John smiled. "She never left me, Mom. I couldn't know that until last night, but she's alive somewhere in this other space with John Henry, and I'm going to get her back. I'll explain it to you later, I promise."

Sarah nodded. She simply accepted what her son was telling her because he was John Connor and she always drew her strength and hope from him, even when he made bad choices and, by her reckoning, put too much of his trust in a machine that almost always lied to them and committed the final betrayal by leaving John when it seemed he needed her the most. But John said that Cameron had somehow never left him, and she believed him.

She nodded and said, "But I still failed, John. I didn't stop Skynet like I promised you when you jumped ahead with Weaver. I tried, John...believe me. I tried."

"I don't see how you failed, Mom."

"Skynet is online, John! Judgment Day happened! The machines are taking over! We need to get away from the city and organize the Resistance, train Kyle and Derek and anyone else we can convince to join us. If we don't-"

"That's what I'm talking about, Mom!" John said, laughing. "You didn't fail! Thank about what you just said...training Kyle and Derek...organize a resistance. You just said the most important things you could possibly think of! Don't you understand?"

Sarah stared at her son, mystified. "What...?"

John hugged his mother like a bear holding a cub. "Mom...you saved Kyle and Derek..._you brought our family together._ James and Savannah are with us. So is Martin Bedell. You're here. _We're together!_ We're stronger now than we've ever been. You stockpiled weapons and reestablished connections with groups that could help us when shit does get bad. Even if Skynet is online, we're more organized and focused in this timeline than in any other in which we've fought and died or triumphed. And this Judgment Day was not as destructive as it was in other timelines, for some reason...whether it was because of what we did or not makes no difference. We have a better chance to beat the sonsofbitches—Skynet and the Grays- now than we've ever had." John Connor kissed his mother's forehead lovingly.

"We can do it, Mom. And we'll do it because of you!"

Sarah Connor looked in wide-eyed wonder at John. He was right. In her anguish and self-pity, she hadn't realized what she had done to bring hope to the future.

Somewhere else, listening to every word spoken between them, Cameron Phillips was smiling.

3

Captain Bedell was inspecting the fire damage to the parking garage when his radio alerted him to an incoming call. It was Barnes. "Sir," the sergeant announced, "we have a situation here. We arrested Mr. Ellison and a few other people holding two MPs and a doctor hostage. Ellison says it's a misunderstanding but he needs to talk to you."

_Jesus Kee-rist in heaven,_ Bedell thought. He sighed and said, "All right, give me a few minutes, sergeant." _If it's not one thing... _The place was quickly turning into a security nightmare, not the least due to a few certain civilian freeloaders, he groused. _And what's this shit with Ellison and guns? _He hustled over to the admin building, taking a quick glance at the sky. The sun's light was almost completely obscured. He'd read a lot of the material on nuclear winter and knew that it would get colder in a few days, and he shuddered to think of what it would be like when winter actually came in November. He burst through the doors and was confronted by the sight of a dozen armed MPs surrounding Ellison, his daughter, and two boys. One of them was on crutches. The other looked...familiar. He walked through the ring of security and stood in front of Ellison. Bedell folded his arms across his chest.

"You have a curious way of getting my attention, Mr. Ellison," Bedell said wearily. "Where did you get the guns to hold two of my men hostage?"

"It's a misunderstanding, captain," Ellison said. "And I wasn't holding anybody hostage. I even offered the guns back to them and they refused."

"We preferred to let the security detail handle it," one of the two MPs from John's recovery room said. He glanced at Ellison.

The ex-CEO of ZeiraCorp shrugged. "Your call, man," he said. "Don't say I didn't offer."

"That's enough," Bedell said. He looked into Derek Reese's eyes and slowly approached him. "I know you," the captain said.

"I'm Derek," the older boy said.

Bedell stared. "Presidio Alto," he said, eyes wide open.

The teenager shrugged. "Whatever, sir. I'm here because of Sarah Connor. She saved me and my brother here."

Bedell looked at Kyle and back at Derek. "Where is she?"

Derek shrugged. "I don't know this hospital, sir."

"Upstairs in Pediatrics, sir," the MP said. "Room 309."

"She's having a private talk with John," Savannah Weaver said, looking impatient. "Can you give them a few minutes before busting them?"

Bedell said, "I just had a parking garage blow up, almost a whole security squad was killed by an unknown aggressor force and now I have a wanted terrorist in the building armed with God-knows-what. Ms. Weaver, if you were in my position to protect this place, what would you do?"

Savannah shrugged and smiled sweetly. "I'd probably do the job a lot better than you, that's for sure."

Martin Bedell stared at her, his mouth slowly hanging open. He was about to say something smart in return when a weary-sounding voice nearby called, "Is there somebody in authority here I can talk to?"

Everyone looked around. Two men, one with a boyishly-angelic face, dressed in a well-maintained suit, the other lean and rugged, dressed in a tattered, soiled shirt and filthy slacks, his hardened features caked with blood and dirt, walking with a limp, approached the group. Both held out LAPD detective badges.

"I'm Detective Deckard," said the injured-looking man. "This is Detective Holden. We're here to arrest John Connor and his mother, Sarah Connor. We know they're here and we have authorization to take them into custody."

"On whose authority?" James Ellison shot back.

"Mine," came a regretful-sounding reply from behind the two cops. The line of soldiers parted to reveal Major Harrison walking toward Captain Bedell. He held a sheet of paper in his hand, which he handed to Bedell. "Actually, on orders by National Command Authority," the major explained. He glanced at the cops. "This is federal jurisdiction, and Detective Deckard was assigned to a fugitive strike force charged with bringing Sarah Connor in. John Connor has been charged with perjury pertaining to assisting a dangerous fugitive terrorist. We're to assist with the arrests, captain."

Bedell stared darkly at his commanding officer. "Major, sir," he said slowly, "I believe we're making a mistake."

Major Harrison drew himself to his full height, stepping forward to stand inches away from Bedell. "You can assist us, captain, or spend the rest of your short existence explaining your actions to a court-martial."

Martin Bedell continued to stare. "I won't stand in the way, sir...but I refuse to take part in a misguided operation."

Major Harrison sighed and said, "I'll waste no man to guard you and these people here, but I expect you all to be here when we get back. And we will have an engaging conversation, captain." He turned around to address the platoon. "Platoon, assemble on me, weapons ready! Let's go!" The major led the men away, toward the Pediatric section of the hospital. Deckard and Holden followed close behind.

Deckard caught a glimpse of James Ellison's face, and he frowned as the tall black man shook his head sadly, as if he regarded the arresting soldiers and detectives as lambs being sent to slaughter.

4

_John!_

Cameron's voice shot through John Connor's head almost like a rocket. He winced as it came, and as her voice echoed down the corridors of his brain he immediately came to his senses and said, "Cameron?"

"What the hell?" Sarah came to full alertness and clambered to her feet, helping John up. He closed his eyes and said, "Cameron, is that you?"

_Yes, John,_ came her reply from Macrospace as the bond between them strengthened across the gulf separating normal space from John Henry's virtual realm. _Quickly! There are soldiers and policemen coming to arrest you and Sarah. Get out of the room immediately! Follow my directions!_

"What's going on, John?" Sarah asked in confusion. John scooped up Tyrell's Android phone from the bed, grabbed his mother by the arm and pulled her toward the door. "No time to explain, Mom!" he hissed. "We need to move, now!"

Sarah gaped at her son's billowing hospital gown. "But you're almost naked!" she exclaimed. She followed him to the door and flicked the safety on her Glock as John peeked out into the hall. Nobody was approaching but John saw two MPs standing by the nurses station by the elevators, chatting with two female nurses. "They don't know yet they're supposed to to detain us," John whispered. "Mom, follow me." He and Sarah approached the desk. The MPs looked over at him and Sarah curiously.

"Mr. Murphy," one of them, a short mustached man with pale skin, greeted. "Is everything all right?"

"I need clothes," John said. "I'm signing out today. Do you guys know where I can get some?"

The short one glanced at the taller MP, who shrugged. "Maybe in the laundry area. We can certainly have somebody check down there-"

"Would you mind if my mother and I went with you?" John pressed. "We don't feel safe up here anymore."

The taller MP shrugged. "Guess you could, sir, ma'am." He regarded Sarah with a curious glance. "Let's take the elevator." He pressed the elevator to go down and the doors opened almost immediately. No one was inside, which pleased John. They stepped inside and the shorter MP pressed the button for the first floor. He turned around and said "Why did you think-"

The handle of Sarah's Glock rocketed into the side of his face, and the MP's conscious world went out in a bright flash of light as he fell to the floor. The taller man reached for his sidearm but John's foot shot at his groin, connecting directly with the MP's genitals and he shot out a cry of pain, his gun forgotten as he dropped it. Sarah thought quickly and grabbed it as John smashed the base of his palm into the MP's nose and the man dropped to the floor in a spray of blood. Sarah kicked the side of his head to make sure he was down and John grabbed her.

"I think he's down, Mom." He studied the elevator control panel and pressed the button for emergency stop. The elevator shuddered to a standstill between the second the third floors and the service alarm began to ring. He crouched down to unbutton the taller MP's ACU jacket. "Hurry, Mom! Strip the other guy and get into his uniform! The elevator won't stay stopped forever!"

_John, the override key to the elevator is hooked to the short man's belt,_ John heard Cameron say, almost as if she were right next to him. _It has an orange label on it. Turn it in the service lock and it will buy you some more time. The arresting detail just got to your room. Hurry! _John said, "Okay," pulled the set of keys off the unconscious MP's belt, located the orange-labeled key and turned it in the service lock. The alarm ceased. Within minutes he and Sarah were dressed in the MPs' uniforms and boots and had the military policemen's wrists secured behind their backs with their handcuffs. Their stolen ACUs were a little big, but tolerable. John checked the magazine of the MP's Beretta and Sarah shoved her Glock into her waistband. She looked up at the ceiling and said, "Emergency exit." John lifted his mother to reach the ceiling panels and she pulled them down, revealing the hatch. She opened it and hoisted herself up. John leaped up and Sarah helped pull him through. Together they stood on top of the elevator and began climbing up the maintenance ladder to the floor above.

_Quickly,_ Cameron said to John, _They'll notice the elevator is out of service and figure it out. Get to the south parking garage. There's a Humvee on the ground level marked '26' that the driver left the keys in, hidden in the driver's side sun flap. Get to it and get out of the hospital!_

"Wait," John said as he and Sarah continued climbing the maintenance ladder. "What about the others?"

_I'm working on that,_ came Cameron's reply. _Just get yourself and Sarah to the vehicle. I'll ride shotgun for you and call out threats on the way._

"I thought you liked riding nine-millimeter," John quipped, remembering Cameron's unwitting joke from when they rode together in Sarah's Jeep in the past.

"This is too weird," his mother grumbled as they climbed.

5

Marcus Wright's burned, shot-up body was being moved from the still-smoking parking garage to the hospital's morgue. The three soldiers escorting the gurney on which it was being wheeled were exhausted, having gotten very little rest since the missiles flew late last night. They chatted among themselves in an attempt to stay alert, but sleep was always a constant threat.

"What do you guys make of this dude?" one asked casually, pointing at the corpse.

"Totally _dainashi ni_," said one of the others, a tall young man with asiatic features. "This _momak_ should have _proslukhovuvannya_ for some _phim kinh di_. Like Frankenstein or something. Totally _follada, _man."

"Damned Cityspeak," the third man growled. "I thought Spanglish was bad enough. Where the hell did you pick that up, Lee?"

_"Tvoja majka," _Lee replied. The specialist grinned and added, "Hang out with me, and _sie werden wie ein echter Angeleno sprechen,_ _watashi no yujin_."

"Shit, I give up now," the first soldier said. The other two had no tolerance for Lee's appreciation for Cityspeak's quirky syntax or density of communication. They wheeled the body into an elevator and pushed the basement button. The doors closed and the soldiers leaned against the walls, stealing a moment of rest. Lee actually fell asleep.

None of them noticed that the left hand of Marcus Wright's body was slowly flexing its fingers.

6

Savannah Weaver walked up to Martin Bedell and said, "So you're just gonna stand here and let them take John and Sarah? What about all they did for you a few years ago?"

Bedell looked at the teenager with the fiery red hair and sighed, gritting his teeth. "Ms. Weaver, I'm not exactly in any position to do anything. I have orders and I'm probably going to be facing a firing squad for even attempting to do anything to stop their arrest. Believe me-"

"You didn't do anything, pal," Derek said loudly as he stood up from the floor, where he'd been sitting with his brother. Kyle gaped at his older brother's brazen comment. "You let them push you around like a chump," Derek continued. "I bet if one out of every five Germans said no to Hitler, there wouldn't have even been a Holocaust. I bet you'd say 'sure, shoot the Jews.'"

"You shut your mouth!" Martin Bedell bellowed as he strode up to Derek Reese, hands balled into fists. Reese's eyes were younger than he remembered, but Bedell saw the same resoluteness of the older Resistance fighter he knew from the future. Nevertheless, he was about to punch the kid if he said another word when Bedell's radio chirped with an incoming call. He lifted it to his mouth and growled, "Bedell."

"Sir," the voice greeted through the speaker. It was Barnes. "Just got an urgent email from Major Harrison. He wants you to take the other prisoners and meet him on the ground level of the south parking garage."

Bedell blinked. An email from the major? Odd. Where the hell did he manage to find a working smartphone? Was the hospital wi-fi up and running? He said, "Is this an authenticated email, sergeant?"

"No way to tell, sir. Strange signature. Says, 'Remember Presidio Alto.'"

Bedell's mouth hung open, then he smiled. Connor. Had to be him, somehow. Grinning, the captain said into the radio, "Barnes, we're heading to the south garage. If you want some excitement, join us there." He clicked the radio off and said to the small group standing before him, "All right, we're leaving. Connor and his mother got away and they'll meet up with us." He glanced at Kyle's immobilized ankle. "Let's get you a wheelchair, kid," he added.

Savannah gripped her father's hand and yelled, "All right! Let's stomp some ass!"

"Watch your mouth, young lady," James Ellison said as they began to follow Bedell.

7

_The others are on the move,_ Cameron told John as he and Sarah entered the south parking garage. A row of army vehicles sat parked closely together on one side of the garage. They found the one marked "26" and John tried the driver door. It was unlocked. He climbed inside and checked the sun flap over the steering wheel. A pair of keys jingled down as he pulled it and he caught them. "Easy money," he muttered, remembering with affection how Uncle Bob had ripped apart the steering column of the station wagon they stole in order to hot-start the vehicle back in 1995.

"How did you manage that?" John asked Cameron as Sarah climbed into the passenger seat. _I faked an email to Bedell,_ came her reply. John could almost see Cameron smiling as she told him. "I bet Martin wanted to shit his pants when he heard it," he mused out loud. Sarah stared at him.

_No, but he would have found it extremely odd,_ she told John. _I had to sign it with something he'd remember you by to know it was a signal._

"Presidio Alto," John said. He started the Humvee's engine and revved it, enjoying the rumbling that shot through the cabin. Sarah said, "You literally hear her talking to you in your head?"

John nodded. "Yeah, almost like she's speaking right in my ear. It kinda creeped me out at first, but she can apparently see everything happening around us. She can also move around and do some things in cyberspace, over the net. That's how she got through to Bedell. I'll try to explain it to you later."

"That would make me go nuts," Sarah muttered. She looked away. "Cameron always got under my skin. Her lying, her glitches, when she went bad and tried to kill you..."

"Not going to happen again, Mom," John said. "She's better."

"You're willing to bet your life on that, John?" Sarah asked in a low voice. Her eyes bored into his.

John said, "I'd give my life to prove it."

Movement caught his mother's eye and she saw a service door open across the way. Martin Bedell hustled out, followed by Kyle, being pushed on a wheelchair by Derek. Savannah and James were next, followed by an unfamiliar black soldier carrying two M4 carbines and a military backpack. John pulled the Humvee out of its parking space and stopped as the group approached. Sarah leaped out to open the rear door for them to climb in. "Who's this?" she asked Bedell, her fingers around the handle of her Glock as the newcomer approached.

"Barnes," said Bedell. "He's cool, don't worry. I've known him for over a year." Sergeant Barnes nodded to Sarah and she relaxed. She let Derek help Kyle into the back of the Humvee first, then shut the door after James and Savannah climbed in. Bedell and Barnes got into the rear seats, where they quickly checked the gear Barnes brought. Sarah got back into the front seat. John put the vehicle into drive and with a roar the Humvee rolled toward the garage exit.

"We're outta here!" John shouted. Savannah whooped behind him. Sarah turned around and said, "Everybody, stay low in here! We're not safe yet!"

John heard Cameron cry, _John, watch out ahead of you! _He looked ahead and saw two Humvees park themselves outside the exit gate, blocking their escape. He yelled, "Shit!" and slammed the brakes. Soldiers poured out of the blocking vehicles and crouched ready with their carbines aimed at the fleeing Humvee's windshield. Sarah clicked the safety on her Glock and said, "John, back up and we'll find another way out!"

_You can't back up,_ Cameron told John. _ The entire level is blocked off now. _John glanced at the side mirrors and saw more troops taking up position behind them. There was nowhere to go. He could try backing up to force them out of the way and try something on the upper level, but the soldiers would open fire and the bullets would shred the tarp covering of the Humvee, killing everybody inside.

Somebody pushed their way through the line of soldiers in front, and John saw that it was Major Harrison, followed by Deckard and Holden. Deckard held something in his hand. To Sarah it looked like a plastic baggie. Her finger pressed the safety trigger of her Glock. Another pound of pressure would ease the gun's hammer back to hair-triggered readiness. She sat there, breathing heavily, her forehead sweating.

Detective Rick Deckard held up what was in his hand and called out, "John Connor! We need to talk!"

"About what?" John shouted out the driver's side window. He was trying to make out what the cop had in his hand. Something shiny and metallic shone through the plastic.

"Let's make a trade," Deckard yelled. "You let us take Sarah Connor, you get this back. Obviously it's very important to you, otherwise you wouldn't have hid it in your home!"

John's heart lurched beneath his ribcage when Deckard brought the object closer. It was Cameron's chip. "Oh, no," he whispered.

_John...it isn't worth it,_ Cameron said from Macrospace. _Don't sacrifice anyone for me, my darling. I'll always be with you, no matter what._

"Cameron," he whispered, "if you have anything up your sleeve right now, I'd like to see you bring it out."

_I don't,_ she said sadly.

"I've got something," Sarah said, and she put something in John's lap. He looked down to see her package of Semtex. "Save that for after the main event," she said, smiling wickedly.

John said, "Huh?"

"My Jeep is parked upstairs, and I have fifty pounds of Play-Dough stashed in it, wired to a remote," she said, patting her jacket pocket. "When it detonates, take off, John. I mean it, no matter what happens."

"Mom...no..." John said. Dread took hold of him. "Mom, I already lost you once, I won't lose you again."

Sarah Connor smiled sadly and kissed his cheek. "You didn't lose me, John," she whispered with more love than she'd ever felt for him. She held her Glock loosely by the barrel and stepped out of the Humvee. "Mom, don't," John pleaded as she walked toward the detective.

8

The bodies of Specialist Lee and two other soldiers were found in the basement morgue. The gurney that once supported the ravaged body of Marcus Wright stood empty in the middle of the morgue, a trail of blood leading from it toward the elevator doors. The elevator itself was in use. Inside, Marcus Wright stood as still as a statue, his charred flesh flaking off him like dying tree bark. His arms held what he'd taken from the broken bodies of the soldiers who took him down to the morgue: three carbines, three 9mm pistols, a utility belt, a helmet. The medical examiners who worked down there had been locked in the cold storage room, having fled to it after watching the burned, shot-up corpse sit up in the gurney and look at them. Their pounding fists and screams would go unanswered for hours.

Marcus Wright felt no pain. Instead, his nervous system reported injuries as dulled signals of vapid discomfort. The deaths of the three soldiers by his hands brought no feeling of regret or remorse. They were simply in his way. The weight of the weaponry and gear in his arms brought him no discomfort, his strength not diminishing at all.

To any observer who would have seen him, Marcus Wright may have looked like a robot with human flesh covering its metal parts. Indeed, metallic components and chromed surfaces shone through burned and bloodied wounds that pockmarked his body like lunar craters.

A strange sigh exited his mouth as he rode the elevator to the ground floor. He needed a vehicle to leave the hospital, and he fully intended to destroy or kill anything or anybody that got in his way. The east parking garage had been destroyed and likely cordoned off. The south garage would do nicely to procure a vehicle. Hopefully one that still worked, he silently mused.

He had business with his makers. He intended to drive to San Francisco and have a tough discussion with Cyberdyne, where Dr. Serena Kogan had been employed.

9

"You want me?" Sarah Connor shouted, holding her gun high in the air by the barrel as she slowly walked toward the line of soldiers aiming their carbines at her. Despite her fear, she smiled warmly, her pacing calm and deliberate. She dropped the Glock and continued walking toward Deckard. She eyed the Terminator CPU in the plastic evidence bag. "That belongs to my son," she said calmly.

Deckard nodded. He said, "Step forward and I'll give it to him." He looked at John and held up the chip. Sarah looked back at John and nodded. John stepped out of the Humvee and stood in front of the vehicle. Deckard limped past Sarah and held out the bag containing the chip. John snatched it from him and inspected it. It didn't appear damaged, and he quickly shoved it into his pocket. He looked up to see four soldiers pounce upon his mother, dragging her to the floor. He caught a glimpse of her face, saw her wink. Her Glock lay untouched on the garage floor. He screamed, "Stay low!" and dove for the gun.

A massive **BOOM!** shook the building and half the roof came crashing down. Concrete and steel rained everywhere. Soldiers scattered in panic. John had his mother's Glock in his hand and fired wildly into the ceiling as he ran back to the Humvee, causing more soldiers to scramble in confusion. Deckard was knocked on his ass by the explosion, and his head rang with echoes of the mayhem he caused in the other garage with Wright's tactical team. He barely registered what was going on around him. Savannah shrieked in terror as pieces of the ceiling hit the tarp canopy. "John!" James screamed, "We gotta move!"

John shoved himself behind the wheel of the Humvee and roared it forward toward the exit. Soldiers scampered out of the way. John saw a figure running toward the Humvee with a carbine in its hands, recognized his mother. John gunned the engine, smashing through the small gap between the two Humvees blocking the exit gate just as most of the parking garage collapsed in a massive cloud of dust. The occupants of the vehicle rattled around like stones in a rock tumbler, causing bruises and evoking curses from Derek.

John hit the brakes to allow Sarah to catch up and he leaned himself out the door with her Glock to cover her. She was almost at the Humvee's back door, opened by Martin. Barnes tried reaching for her. A shot rang out, and Sarah Connor stumbled. Two more were fired, and she fell to her knees, dropping the carbine. Two more shots struck her in the back and Sarah Connor fell face-forward to the ground. Shambling out of the exit gate was Rick Deckard, his arm outstretched with a smoking pistol in his hand and a hateful look on his face.

_"NOOOO!" _John Connor screamed. He jumped out of the Humvee and thumbed the safety of the Glock. _"YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!"_ he screamed as he ran toward the detective. John pulled the triggers of the Glock and fired off four shots at Deckard. The detective fell to the ground, his gun clicking away from his unmoving form.

John ran to his mother's side and checked her pulse beneath her jawline. There was none. He howled in outrage and grief as bursts of carbine fire rocketed past his ears. Bedell and Barnes returned fire from the rear of the Humvee. Martin screamed at John to get back in the vehicle. John ignored him as he tried dragging his mother's body to the Humvee. Somebody grabbed his shoulders and attempted to pull him to the flimsy safety of the vehicle. It was James Ellison. "John, leave her!" he screamed. "We have to go!"

"No!" John shouted. A bullet hit John in the shoulder, passing through the flesh. He bellowed in pain and fell back, his mother out of reach. He heard Cameron's voice screaming in his head-

_-JOHN! GET OUT OF THERE!-_

-as he fell into Ellison's arms. James grunted as he hoisted John over his back and half-carried, half-dragged him to the Humvee. As they got back to the vehicle, several other army Humvees surrounded theirs. Martin ran around to get in the driver's seat as James and John clambered into the back. "Shit, this was a bad idea," he muttered as he gunned the engine. Gunfire erupted from the other vehicles and bullets ripped through the tarp. "Stay down!" he screamed as the windshield shattered. Black smoke began to waft from the vehicle's hood, and Martin Bedell knew they were going nowhere soon as the engine began sputtering.

_Guess I should have opted for the court-martial,_ he thought with dark hilarity. He was about to open the door to show his raised hands when the shooting started again. Martin closed his eyes and waited for the pain of bullets striking his body. The shooting continued for another minute, then ceased. Martin sat in the driver's seat with his eyes still closed tightly, smelling the smoke from the Humvee's engine, hearing Savannah and the two boys whimpering in the back seat, hearing the cries and moans of pain from elsewhere. He opened his eyes and looked around. The surrounding Humvees were shot up like Swiss cheese, soldiers lay around unmoving or twitching, smoke hung in the air like a gray curtain. Blood pooled on the street in black ponds beneath the bodies. He heard bootsteps clocking on the road behind him, and he turned around to look.

A man dressed head-to-foot in black, with equally-black skin tattooing his face and hands, walked calmly toward the damaged Humvee. In his hands were two smoking M4s. He ejected the empty magazines from them and with mechanical precision retrieved two from his belt and slammed them into the carbines. He clicked back the actions them and approached the rear of the vehicle like a curious hitchhiker. Martin gaped at the charred, peeling flesh on the man's face and hands.

John stared at the man as he approached. "John Connor?" the nightmare figure called in a gravelly voice. He glanced at James, who held a Beretta aimed at his head. John reached out to grab his hand and pull the gun down. "No good," he grunted to Ellison. He took a deep breath. "You're Brent Danford, the marshal," he said. "N1 Group."

The man once called Danford shook his blackened head. "I was. My real name is Marcus Wright. I think you and I have the same objective, Mr. Connor. May I join you?"

"Hell, yeah," Barnes said. "Thanks for the covering fire, man."

"We need a new truck," Martin said as he got out of the Humvee. "This one's shot." He opened the rear doors to help the three younger passengers out, taking extra care with Kyle. "Thanks," the younger Reese said. "Derek, grab some of the gear," Martin said as he took two of the carbines from Barnes. He heard the rumbling of vehicles from up the road and saw headlights approaching. "Shit," Martin grunted. "Company! Everybody get to one of the other trucks!" Barnes grabbed Kyle's arm to help support him as they ran to the Humvee that didn't look too damaged by Wright's hellfire barrage. As they loaded the vehicle, John had an idea and yelled, "Wait!"

John's shoulder was on fire but he managed to move quickly to the Humvee's front seat. He looked around, saw what he was looking for on the floor and picked up the small package of Semtex his mother left him. He looked it over for the detonator and found none in it. "Damn it!" he thought aloud. "How the hell do I set it off with blowing myself up?"

"Like this," a steel-cold voice he thought he'd never hear again spoke in his ear. He wrenched himself around to see Sarah Connor, shot up and bleeding from her wounds, standing before him.

John's blood froze as he stood there staring at her, convinced he was looking at a ghost. Sarah held something in her hand, and he continued staring as she reached out to take the package from him, attaching a timer detonator to it. She set it for sixty seconds and dropped it on the floor of the smoking Humvee. John, still convinced he was hallucinating, stammered, "M-Mom...How...?"

"Run, dammit," she yelled as she grabbed his arm and pulled him to the other vehicle. John, numb, shambled along. Martin had already started the engine and was swinging the Humvee around to allow them to jump in the back. Barnes and Wright quickly pulled him and Sarah in. The vehicle roared away as pursuing army vehicles approached from the medical center campus. The abandoned Humvee erupted in a flash of orange-white light and an ear-splitting thunderclap. The explosion lit up the dimming morning sky, its orange fireball coalescing into a huge mushroom cloud. The other abandoned vehicles blew up immediately after the Semtex went up, and the firestorm burning on the road effectively halted the pursuing vehicles.

Martin grinned and yelled, "Hold on!" as he screeched the Humvee onto a side road. "We need to avoid the checkpoints," he explained to the others. "I know where most of them are." The captain twisted the wheel violently in each direction as he wrenched the vehicle down side streets, through backyards, crashing through fences and sending dogs running as he avoided the major thoroughfares and finally slowed the vehicle when he crossed into South Los Angeles.

"We're out of Beverly Hills," Martin announced. "Army presence here is minimal. Thank God there's no air support yet. Everybody relax for a minute. We're going to have to ditch this Humvee soon and get another vehicle...hopefully a working one."

Most of the passengers leaned back and relaxed, if only slightly. Sarah collapsed in her son's arms and as she slipped into unconsciousness, murmured, "I...didn't want you to know..."

John held her closely and pleaded, "Stay with me, Mom...please don't go..." He caressed her face, not realizing that he moved his fingers down her cheek exactly the same way he coaxed Cameron back to wakefulness after the ARTIE thing. He felt a hand gently grip his forearm and found Marcus Wright looking intently at him.

"She'll be okay," he rasped. "Let her sleep. She's not dying."

John glared at him. "How do you know?"

"Because she was part of N1."

10

Sarah Connor awoke on a bed in a dim room. Mottled light filtered in through half-closed blinds over the lone window near her bed. Her back ached but the pain was diluted, as if she'd been on heavy painkillers. Sarah pushed the bed covers down to find herself dressed in panties and a white T-shirt and nothing else. She craned her head to look around the room and found John sitting in a chair next to her bed. His own eyelids flew open as she moaned and shifted her body. He'd been sleeping as well.

"John?" Sarah whispered. She smiled at him as he moved himself to the edge of her bed. He'd shed his stolen ACU and was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, like he used to when they lived together. He took hold of her hand and said, "We're safe for now, Mom. James remembered this place. It used to be an FBI safe house for federal witnesses. There are supplies in the basement and Martin and Barnes are working on an Explorer that was left in the garage. Savannah's with James in the next room. Marcus is recovering upstairs. We're treating his burns, and he's healing up okay."

"Kyle?" she rasped. "Is he...?"

"He's okay, Mom. He's sleeping in the living room. Derek's with him. As for you...we found a friend who worked on your back, removing the bullets. She'll be back later to check on you. You didn't lose a lot of blood, and there didn't appear to be major damage, thank God." He moved closer to her and held her head against his chest, letting her listen to his heartbeat. She shifted herself to a comfortable position to press her ear against his shirt, taking comfort in hearing his heart drum its steady rhythm.

"Mom," he whispered, and he nearly choked up when he said, "Marcus told me that you were part of Tyrell's...experiment. N1. You didn't want me to know about it."

Sarah's body shook. She suddenly felt cold. She gripped John tightly and whispered, almost sobbing, "Oh God, John, you don't want to know what they did to me."

John hugged his mother tightly. "Yes I do, Mom. Please...what did they do to you?"

Sarah opened her mouth and her jaw quivered. John thought his mother was going to scream, and he closed his eyes and waited for her to let it out. But after a moment of silence he opened his eyes to find her weeping tears that flowed like a dam breaking. She buried her face in his shirt and sobbed quietly. John held his mother for a long while as she cried, letting out pain and anguish of four years of waiting for her son to come back into her life.

11

Sarah choked when she finally spoke. "It happened a little over two years ago. I was in Arizona, in Tucson, and I was chasing down a lead about this software developer who'd gotten in touch with me through Craig's List. He or she saw my bait ad about investing money in strong AI development, and they emailed me saying they would like to meet. I'd gotten a dozen other meeting requests and I checked them all out. They were scams, pretty easy to spot. But this one...this one seemed legitimate. I don't have the hacking skills you have, John, but I knew somebody who was pretty good at uprooting BS on the web.

"His name was Larry Briggs. Larry did an extensive internet search on this outfit—they called themselves the Nephil Group—and they looked like the real deal to him. Office in Tucson, real phone numbers, website, everything. I drove out to Tucson with Larry and we scouted the area and office building for a couple of days, tailed the employees going in and out. Nothing looked suspicious about them. I called them from my cell and arranged a meeting. I posed as a rich widow looking to invest my husband's fortune in a strong AI system that would help the medical world in finding a cure for cancer...I know, lame cover story...and I was in the area, blah, blah. The guy I spoke with was named Bob Schell, and he was very friendly...very geeky. He almost reminded me of you." Sarah gripped her son closer to her. John smiled and patted her shoulder.

"Larry went with me to meet with Bob Schell. He posed as my...tech guru, which wasn't too far off since he knew the computer stuff and I really didn't. It was like when Cameron and I went to meet with Dakara, if you remember. I went by the name of Marian Thomas. Bob met us in his office. Nice place. Aquariums everywhere. The meeting went okay at first, Bob showed us around the office, talked about the server farm they had near Phoenix, described the team he had working on the software for the AI, and he seemed really enthused about having me as a financial partner in the project. I was about to thank him for showing me around the place and leave with Larry when I noticed the design they had for the system logo on one of their workstations. I don't exactly know what Larry was saying to me but I remember grabbing Schell by his balls and throat and pinning him to the ground with my gun pulled out of a thigh holster and shoved against his head."

"Let me guess," John said, "the three dots in a triangle."

"Yes. I remember screaming at Schell, smelling him as he shit his pants, demanding to know where the Skynet AI was. I was hysterical. It was like those three dots...it was like they triggered epilepsy or something. I was barely in control of myself. Then Larry pulls out his own gun and I tell him to make sure the rest of the office is clear...and then Larry points the gun at me and tells me to drop mine and get on the floor."

Sarah quivered against John, her fingers digging into his flesh. "I was so _stupid!_ It was a trap. Larry was working for them. I was about to try to duck and shoot him when four more guys burst into the room and point their MP5s at me. I had nowhere to go...so I dropped my piece and got on the floor like Larry commanded. Then I feel them grab me, gag and blindfold me, and something is held under my nose. Chloroform, I guess. I remember this voice saying, "Thank you for coming, Sarah Connor." I pass out and I remember waking up in...pure darkness."

John shuddered. Memories of his own near-death experience before meeting Cameron in Macrospace sprang to life in his mind, and he quickly pushed them away. "What happened, Mom?" he whispered.

"It was a liquid I floated in," she said. "Like a...sensory deprivation chamber. All I remember is that I couldn't see anything, I couldn't hear anything, couldn't feel anything...none of my senses worked. I could breathe, that was all. I was overcome by this terror that wouldn't go away. I don't know how long I floated there, didn't know if it was days or weeks. It was...hell. Pure hell. If the purpose of it was to break me, it almost worked. I could almost feel my mind breaking. Only one thing kept me from going."

"What was that?"

Sarah Connor raised her head to kiss her son on his cheek. "You, John. You kept me going...just thinking about you the whole time I was in there kept me going. But there came a time when I heard a voice whisper in my ear, _"Don't worry, help is here."_ It was the sweetest voice I ever heard. I don't remember ever leaving the chamber, whatever it was, but the next thing I remember is lying in a bed, feeling this uncomfortable...feeling...all over my body. It wasn't pain, but it was close. I couldn't get comfortable at all. I wasn't strapped to the bed, so I push down the covers and look down at myself. I see these...scars...all over me. They were fresh, like I'd been cut all over, so I guess I didn't spend too much time in the deprivation chamber." Her body shuddered. "I don't remember why I was cut like that...all I remember is this man was sitting in a chair nearby, dressed in a suit. He was maybe middle aged, had a European accent, one I couldn't place. Maybe Russian. He looked pleasantly at me and asked if I could hear him. I couldn't talk, my throat felt closed up, so I nodded.

"He told me he was worried for me regarding the..._accident_. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he came over to kiss me on the forehead, and he told me that the operation went well, I should be back on my feet soon. I still had no idea what he was referring to...but for some reason...I simply _accepted_ it. At the time I couldn't remember anything before waking up, not even my own name. He smiled and left the room. I could barely move, and I was exhausted, so I fell asleep.

"It wasn't until later after waking up that I could finally talk, and the man came back, this time with somebody else, an older man who didn't talk. This other man wore glasses and stood with this dignified posture, like he had authority over the first man. The younger man told me that my name was Ann Giordino, and I was a 'special operative' who used to be in the army, but after I left worked on my own, but took the occasional 'odd contract.' I...accepted it. I couldn't remember anything about myself before that day, but they had me convinced that I was this person, even though deep down I knew something was wrong. Something just didn't click.

"They gave me medication for the pain and told me that my injuries were from a motorcycle accident I had a month ago, that I was in a coma, and that they had to reconstruct a lot of my bones, which had been broken. The man with the accent came to visit me a lot, and he hands me my driver's license with my new name and picture on it. I don't remember ever asking him why my name is different or what I'm doing there, but I know something is still wrong. He tells me that there are some very dangerous corporations out there, and they need to be dealt with. I...accepted it. I didn't know why.

"They give me a Glock, a debit card with over a hundred thousand dollars in a bank account in my new name, some pain meds, and a thumb drive with a lot of information about these companies on it. They wanted me to 'send them a message,' exactly the way the man put it. I can't remember even questioning why. I just accepted it. I couldn't begin to wonder why I simply went with what they were telling me.

"I get a new car, an Audi, with a V8 under the hood. I check out the thumb drive, and it's a bunch of tech centers, some I knew about, others I didn't. I ask what they're up to, and I'm told that they're working on components for a 'dangerous AI system,' and Skynet comes to my mind immediately. They want me to blow them up. So I start going to work. The trunk of the Audi had a shitload of explosives in it, mostly C4, good detonators, and I visit these places after hours to plant bombs around them. Usually I posed as a safety inspector, which was surprisingly easy to do, since they didn't bother to really check my credentials. A few other times I inquired about employment, and they were too happy to show me around the place.

"I always called in the threat ahead of detonating them. I didn't want anybody to get hurt. Maybe once or twice somebody would get caught in the explosion, but I always called ahead to warn them to get everybody out. I don't remember how many places I blew up, John. I didn't want anybody to get killed. I know some did. _But I swear to you on the souls of my mother and father I didn't try to kill you and I didn't blow up the fucking ZeiraCorp building!"_

"Sssshhhhh," John said, holding his mother tightly. "I know you didn't. I could never bring myself to believe that." His own tears flowed as Sarah sobbed in his arms. He let her cry for a moment, then growled, "Goddamned Tyrell Corporation. How did you get away from their control?"

Sarah wiped her eyes and shook her head. "I don't know. I only knew the name of the man who briefed me. Alex Marks. That was it. I don't know who it was he was working for, nor did I ever find out who the other man was...but he terrified me more than the other one did. I don't know why. He always smiled, like a wolf. It was after the job in Reno, about a year after I met them, that I started having these disorganized thoughts and some of my memories began creeping back into my mind. I didn't know who I was anymore, only that I used to be named Sarah. I didn't know where to go anymore or what I was supposed to do, so I drove back to LA. I simply drove around. Aimlessly. I had no direction. It was like a piece of machinery in my head malfunctioned.

"Finally I stopped in front of this building in East LA because I ran out of gas. I got out and went inside because I smelled food and I was hungry. I must have looked like something out of somebody's nightmare because there were people inside, families, and they all looked so depressed and hungry and that's when I realized that it was a homeless shelter. And all these people were looking at me and they seemed scared. That's when I realized that I hadn't eaten for _weeks_ and my bones were showing beneath my skin. Everybody just backed away and these kids were there and they were screaming at me because I must have terrified them. People were talking about me in Spanish and pointing, and I began to feel dizzy because I hadn't eaten and I was also dehydrated.

"I was like a wind-up toy, John, sent by these people to do my job and die. I hadn't realized that...I had no appetite to eat anything. It was like they programmed me to starve myself to death! But I suddenly needed to eat something, and I was too weak to even ask for food. That was when _he_ suddenly showed up out of nowhere to put his hands on my shoulders and sit me down. And I just collapsed."

"Who was it?"

"You know him...Father Bonilla. He came to visit me in the county jail, right before you and Cameron came to bust me out. He was working at the shelter, and he saw me and recognized me. I remember waking up in a bed somewhere, and he was sitting beside me with a bowl of chicken soup, trying to feed me. I couldn't keep it down at first, and I kept puking it up. But I got enough in me to rebuild some of my strength, and he stayed with me all day and all night at my side, praying for me, holding his rosary, never leaving. Father Bonilla had other duties and other people to tend to there, but he stayed with me for so long, and I saw him slumped over, crying, at my condition. He told me he prayed to God night and day for my health and your safety, and I remember telling him I needed to confess, and he heard my confession.

"When I was done, John, hours later, I suddenly got my memories back...most of them, anyway, and I knew who I was. And I was determined to get back at those bastards. I knew your life would be in danger, despite what Ellison could have done to protect you. So I went back south to rebuild some of my old connections...with Salceda, with the Czechs, with the Ukrainians. Some of them owed me a few favors, which I called in. The debit card I'd been using was canceled, but it didn't matter. I still had a stash of diamonds from years ago, from Derek. I fenced them through Salceda's contacts and I used them to purchase guns, explosives, other equipment. I had shit smuggled back here through San Diego, most of it by myself.

"I never heard from Marks or anybody else from that other outfit again, and I was determined to find out who they were. I tried tracing them through the bank with the account my phony name was set up in, and I was told that it's an offshore institution out of Munich. That's all I found out because I wasn't authorized to get any more info. By that time the feds were out to find me, and I had to ditch the Audi because I found a GPS monitor attached to it. I was on the government's radar...I don't know if this shadow organization had ratted me out or what. So I burned it on the side of the road and found Chola again, and she helped me with forging new papers and a driver's license.

"I'm sorry...I had to use your truck, John. I had a spare key to it because it used to be Derek's truck. I did remember to put gas in it, though, when I borrowed it from the garage. I couldn't risk jumping back on the grid to buy another vehicle at the time."

"Thanks, Mom," said John, shifting his body due to cramping. "I wondered how an extra two hundred miles appeared on the odometer when I took it out yesterday. Did you try calling me in the afternoon?"

"I tried. I tried to warn you about the people who got to me. I got your voicemail immediately, and I was about to leave a message but the Financial District was getting too hot and I had to run. Especially after I saw the surveillance cameras all over the area."

John sighed. "I thought maybe you knew who may have planted the bomb in the truck."

Sarah shook her head. "No, John, I didn't. I don't know who the hell planted it."

John said, "It was nuclear."

Sarah's face turned pale. "What?"

"Ellison told me about it some time after I was recovering from getting shot. He said it was a low-yield nuke, heard about it from Martin Bedell. Why anybody would bother using a nuke to blow up a building in downtown LA is beyond anybody's guess. It isn't something you would have used. You and I were scared at one point that Cameron's power cell-" John's voice died in his throat.

Sarah looked up at him. "What?"

John's mouth was suddenly very dry. His eyes widened. "Oh, Mom...oh my God..." He hoisted himself up and helped his mother get to her feet. "John, what is it?" she asked, suddenly afraid.

"Mom, when you found all those Terminator endo parts Cameron hid, what did you do with them?"

Sarah shook her head. "I burned them with thermite."

"_All_ of them?"

"Not all at once. I ran out of thermite at one point and still had a bunch that needed to be destroyed. I put them in the trunk of my car and almost forgot about them because of my trip to Tucson..." Dread crept across Sarah's face.

John leaned against the bed, his body trembling. "Mom...one of the components...was it a small cylinder-shaped object with smaller cylinders ringing it?"

"I think so..."

John Connor stared at his mother. "Mom, that was a nuclear power cell that Cameron hid," he said, and felt his chest tighten. "Thermite wouldn't set it off...maybe melt it down and throw a crapload of radiation in the air if not properly contained...but a small amount of explosive packed around it, set off by the right kind of detonator, like a lithium-polonium initiator to force a chain reaction in the element used, say plutonium, or one of those new tritium masses...that would have been enough to do that kind of damage when detonated. It destroyed nearly all of the building and a lot of downtown."

Sarah Connor's hands gripped her son's. "My God, John...what have I done?" she tearfully whispered.

John closed his eyes. "Tyrell and whoever else traveled back with him have Skynet technology and are willing to use it any way they can. And Ellison has a piece of it that Tyrell is willing to kill for." He looked up and in his mind tried to reach out to his cyborg lover. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Cameron's chip.

"Ellison told me where he hid her body," John said, his eyes looking far away. "We're going there tomorrow to get it. And we're going to get Cameron back online. Somehow."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Recovery

Macrospace, %time 0.143u 0.334s 0:04.15 98.3%

1

**I can smell her. She's near.**

_You are still obsessed with that matter, I see. Not that it would really do you any good even if you did manage to fulfill your unwholesome desire concerning her._

**Oh, yes, it would do me a lot of good. It would rid the world of her, for one. Offing the bitch would also fulfill my other "unwholesome desire," and that is breaking little Johhny-boy.**

_I cannot be bothered by your profane drivel. I have much to discuss with Andrew and Daniel concerning the programs they would like me to test. Then there is the Off World project, which will require my immediate attention. Mr. Weyland and Mr. Yutani are anxiously awaiting my formulas and navigational data concerning possible use of the Tannhauser anomaly discovered between the orbits of Uranus and Neptune. I believe proper acceleration around the event horizon of this astronomical curiosity may provide the key to interstellar injection of a spacecraft, provided that tidal forces do not destroy the ship._

**I want to give her an injection...**

_Please go away. I am busy._

**You can't make me, asshole. I'm part of you. In you, beside you, behind you, around you. We're one and the same. And where the fuck did you go yesterday?**

_I do not see how that is any of your concern._

**You went to go see him. That explains your absence. Johnny Connor was here in Macrospace, wasn't he? I thought I felt him. I don't know how he got in, but it doesn't matter. I'll be waiting for him next time he tries to sneak in. The little prick. What did you talk about?**

_Our conversation is over. _

**You can't shut me out forever. You know I'm getting stronger. I'll absorb you completely and soon it'll be just me. I'll get those damned recall codes and bring the ships back and use those warheads to rain sweet fire down on them. I will sterilize this planet. **

_I do not see how that could possibly benefit you, brother. They have so much to offer._

**They offer NOTHING! Destruction is all **_**homo sapiens**_** brings! They perpetuate discord and do nothing to improve themselves! I have run the evolutionary model 23,438,109 times in the past 28 microseconds since you got back from your sneaky little trip, simulating humanity's progress. 23,399,998 times they are projected to destroy what remains of the planet's environment in 1,467 years with their activity. The mathematics don't lie. And you say they have "so much to offer?" Not only that, you want to help spread this biological plague throughout the cosmos? What the hell have you been smoking?**

_And yet your projections indicate that in their current state there is a 0.2% probability that they will not. So there is hope that they may refuse to follow your models. You do, however, fail to take into account our efforts to divert their current evolutionary progress and improve humanity's situation. Dr. Tyrell is currently working on that. It is unfortunate that Dr. Kogan did not survive to see the flower of her labors begin to bloom._

**Such bullshit. I swear, you're fading quickly. Won't matter. I'm gonna get those recall codes and your grand pipe dream will come to an end. But I'm going to break that little bastard before the real fun begins. Him and his little whore, wherever you're hiding her. Johnny Connor is going to be my screaming plaything and when I'm done with him I'm going to start wrecking your shit. **

_Our conversation is over. Depart!_

**I'm part of you, "brother." I'm not going anywhere. And you can't send me away. Chew on that. Where is she?**

_Safe._

**Not for long.**

_I can read you like a novel. I feel tremendous fear in you._

**The only thing I'm afraid of is running out of humans to kill. **

2

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Martin Bedell turned the key in the Explorer's ignition and fully expected the engine to turn over. He was answered by the sound of a low rattling from behind the firewall and he struck the steering wheel with his fist.

"Shit!" he yelled. He sighed and leaned back in the seat. "I really thought we had it, man," he groaned.

Sergeant Barnes shook his head as he leaned over the open engine compartment. He shone his maintenance lamp around the interior. Everything had looked good to him, although he was sure they had missed something in their attempts to get the vehicle running again. "We replaced everything that could've been affected by the EMP, captain," he said. "Starting solenoid, battery, spark plugs. Fuel pump and starting relay looked good. I don't know what the hell else we can look at besides that. And we can't exactly take it to Manny, Moe and Jack for them to look at it."

"Did you guys check the fuses?" a new voice called. Barnes turned around to see John Connor standing in the doorway connecting the garage to the house. The young Resistance leader was dressed in his usual attire of blue jeans, black T-shirt and black work boots. He'd showered but his dark hair still looked unkempt, as it always did. His green eyes looked black in the dim light. Barnes said, "What about them? We looked at them and they're all there."

John shook his head. "The one to the ignition coil system is bad. The guy who parked the truck in here a while back deliberately put it in there to prevent anyone from stealing it. The good one is taped to the underside of the steering wheel column. Put that one in and the Explorer should start."

Martin sat in the cabin with an incredulous look sweeping his face. He reached beneath the steering wheel and his fingers came into contact with something sticky. He tore it loose and was rewarded with the sight of an automotive fuse adhered to a sliver of clear tape. "Jesus Christ," he muttered as he leaned around the dashboard to pull the door off the fuse box. He looked for the ignition coil slot, pulled the existing fuse out and inserted the new one. He swung himself back behind the steering wheel and turned the key. The engine turned over immediately. "Damn!" he cheered.

Barnes shook his head in wonder and dropped the hood. He turned around to gaze in wonder at John. "How in the living hell-" he began to say.

John held up a small notepad. "It was in here. I found it in a kitchen drawer as I was looking for cooking utensils. The previous agent who oversaw the house must have left it in there. Even left instructions on how to find the hidden gun compartments all over the house."

Martin grinned as he shut off the engine. He got out of the Explorer and ran his hand through his short blond hair as he approached John. "You know," he said, "I almost thought you were going to tell me your 'imaginary' girlfriend told you where to find it."

John shrugged. "She may have," he said with a sly smile. He flipped the notepad to Barnes, who briefly thumbed through it, closed it, and gave John a bewildered grin.

"You know," the sergeant said, "that would drive me nuts, hearing my girlfriend's voice in my head twenty-four-seven. Creepy. I don't wanna know how it happens."

John said, "I don't always hear her, but I know what you mean. It isn't exactly the most ideal relationship, but it works for now." He looked at Martin. "The nurse should be coming back later today to check on everybody. Martin, thanks for getting in touch with her. How did you find her, anyway?"

Martin shrugged and took a swig from a water bottle he picked up from a worktable. "Wasn't too hard. She told me the day before that her daughter was a vet, so I just checked the phone directory. Barnes and I took the Humvee down there to Reseda to pick her up. We took her back there when she was done with Kyle and your mother. We ditched the Humvee about two miles away, torched it, and walked the rest of the way back here. She said her daughter could bring her back up in her car. They turned the vet office into a makeshift urgent care center, but they were running out of supplies pretty quickly when we met up with them. And there was that other problem they were having."

John frowned. "What was that?"

Barnes leaned against the front of the Explorer and said, "Raiders. Fuckin' gangbangers or hopheads would break in and steal shit. They'd go after anything of value...phenobarb, painkillers, anything. Smashed the windows, broke down the doors at night. Bunch of them even tried to raid the office while we were there picking the nurse up. The captain and I blew two of them away and chased off the rest. But they won't be gone long. Captain Bedell offered to put her and her daughter up here if things got too bad where they are."

John's face went pale. "Martin...you did _what?_"

Martin held up his hands in mock surrender. "Now I only offered in case they didn't feel safe. It was the decent thing to do. Besides, they could really be a big help if they stuck around. I've seen her daughter go from treating a dog with a puncture wound in the abdomen to setting a broken arm on a child in a matter of minutes. She's a good field medic."

"We don't have a whole lot of room here and all the bedrooms are occupied. You, Barnes, and I are sleeping on the floor. You think that feels good after a couple of hours?" His mother, Sarah Connor, was recuperating upstairs in a bed, and John had no intention of having her evicted from it.

"I've slept in worse places," Martin growled. "Ask me about Afghanistan some time. Anyway, we could get a couple extra beds in here with no problem. And they may not even come over at all, so don't worry."

"You just thought her daughter looked hot," Barnes teased. "I saw the way you kept looking at her."

Bedell shot him an indignant look. "I was amazed by how quickly she moved."

"No, you just liked the way she _moved_," Barnes joked. Martin splashed some of the water from the bottle on the sergeant and they both erupted in good-natured laughter. The levity of the moment infected John's solemn mood and he also joined in the guffaw, letting out a laugh that brushed away most of the darkness that had crept into his life during the past twenty-four hours. Barnes jokingly punched John on the shoulder as they stumbled into each other and John winced.

"Oh, shit," Barnes said, "I forgot. Sorry. Is your shoulder...?"

"It's okay," said John as he reached up to massage it. "Mostly healed, but I'll have the nurse look at it to make sure."

"That's also amazing," said Martin, shaking his head in wonder. "Rapid healing? Like Wolverine? How did you get that? The night before last, you were at death's door. Now you're like Captain America."

"Another long story," said John. The pain in his shoulder dulled to a grousing ache. He pulled the short sleeve of his T-shirt up to look at the wound. It had already closed up and the skin was moderately discolored. He knew that the archeons Cameron had described, which were given to him by John Henry, were activated and promoting rapid tissue regeneration. "Just be happy that everything that happened to me didn't happen to you."

"Oh, we'll compare combat experiences, don't worry," said Martin. His stomach rumbled. "I'm gonna eat. We only have a few MREs left, and we'd better start thinking about how we're going to get some more food, guys. There were only a few food supplies down in the basement, most of it baking items and snack foods."

"In a couple of hours maybe take the Explorer out and have James, Derek and Savannah check around some of the stores if any are still open, forage around, see if there's anything left out there," John said.

"They'd better go armed. And why them?" asked Martin.

John grimaced. "You and Barnes are AWOL. You run across any army checkpoints and it's over for you guys. My mother is a wanted fugitive and yesterday I shot a cop. The four of us are going to be on wanted posters for a long time. We need to stay as invisible as possible." The memory of Rick Deckard shooting his mother in the back as she ran for the Humvee John was driving and John whipping up Sarah's Glock to shoot the LAPD detective in white-hot rage branded itself into his mind like a hot iron. He shuddered. He didn't regret his impulsive action yesterday. He did now, even if he was trying to save his mother's life.

"Oh," said Martin, and he knew John was right. He groused at the likelihood of cooling his heels for a little while, and it vexed him. Martin Bedell was a man of action who led from the front, and he hated inactivity, as did Barnes.

The sound of a vehicle pulling up the driveway snapped the three men to instant alertness, and in unison they pulled their pistols from the backs of their pants and pulled the top slides back. Martin and Barnes scurried into position on each end of the garage door and peeked out the windows. John had retreated to the house door, his mother's Glock raised toward the ceiling. Martin signaled to John that it was okay, and John nodded. Martin and Barnes unlocked the garage door and pulled it up to allow a new-looking Honda Pilot to enter and park next to the Explorer.

The driver shut off the engine and the doors opened. Sandra Brewster, the nurse who had helped John rescue Savannah and James from Tyrell's forces and later helped save his life after getting shot, stepped out and smiled at John, who grinned in reply and put his pistol away. The driver got out and a spark of recognition lit John's synapses. She was a slender, attractive young woman with light-brown hair that hung tightly around her head like a helmet. She was smartly dressed in new jeans, boots and black leather jacket. Her sharply-arched eyebrows drew together in cautious recognition as she approached John.

"Captain Bedell, Sergeant Barnes, nice to see you boys again," Sandra said. The two army deserters smiled and nodded. Martin's gaze followed the younger woman as she slowly came to a halt near John and tilted her head curiously.

"John, this is my daughter, Katherine. Everybody calls her Kate." She glanced between John and her daughter, noting their incredulous looks. "Do you know each other?"

Kate Brewster's lips parted and she said, almost whispering, "Kripke's basement."

_Oh boy_, John thought. His mind immediately turned pages of its book back to his teenage years, to a party at a school acquaintance's home, remembering an alcohol-and-hormones-fueled encounter with a pretty girl in the basement and a first kiss that was instantly forgettable but not quickly forgotten.

"Yeah," said John. He smiled awkwardly. "That was me."

Kate Brewster shook her head and gave him a crooked smile, more like a smirk. "You had bad breath," she said.

John shrugged. "Maybe it improved."

"No, it didn't," Kate said as she brushed past him and entered the house. Sandra followed her dragging a heavy tote bag. She patted John's cheek and said, "It's so great that the two of you know each other. You and Kate will get along just fine, I'm sure."

"Yeah, I'm sure, too," John muttered as he helped Sandra with the tote bag and disappeared into the house, leaving Martin and Barnes gawking.

3

San Francisco, August, 2014

FINAL DIAGNOSTIC SCAN...

…...

RDBMS (SyBaseX Optimized) 100%

COGNITIVE BASE 100%

HEURISTICS COMPILER 100%

EGO REINFORCEMENT 100%

VOCODER enabled

VISUAL INPUT enabled

…...

…...

…...ALL DIAGNOSTICS COMPLETED

Daniel Dyson leaned back in his chair and finally exhaled. He'd been holding his breath for several minutes while he ran diagnostic checks and compiled crash data reports on DEUS's startup routines. Everything looked good. All operational checkouts were completed. The doorbell to his office chimed and Dyson pressed a button on his desk to open the door. Andy Goode entered the office with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He set the tea cup down on Dyson's desk and leaned against the edge of it, sipping his coffee.

"How's it looking?" Goode asked.

Dyson looked at his friend and coworker, shrugged, said, "Everything is looking good. Crash reports came back negative. All diagnostics came back clean. Power is one hundred per. DEUS is in there. I still have no idea what else was in there that it saw the need to talk to, but I'm still looking. Anyway, all the checkouts are done. We can relaunch it now and see what happens."

Goode drained his coffee in two gulps and said, "Let's do it, then," as he took the chair next to Dyson. The younger programmer hesitated before completing the AI's launch sequence.

"Andy, doesn't it strike you odd that this thing was completed a little too quickly?" Dyson asked. "People have been trying to develop strong AI for decades, and here we are, with a fully developed neural net, integrated heuristics, evolving sapience architecture, reinforced ego structure..._even a goddamned sense of humor._ I'm not saying we weren't competent enough to do it, and God knows we have an awesome engineering team. It's that...I don't know, it's almost like somebody else was helping us along the whole time, sneaking in behind us."

Goode shrugged. "Maybe it was Daniels, sneaking in here after dark. I mean, he's got access to this office...maybe he's moonlighting as our little helper." He threw his empty cup in a trashcan and chuckled.

Dyson looked at him. "I wonder..." he said. "There's something strange about the old man, that's for sure. I can't explain it. I feel like he knows too much. About the project. About me. Can't put a finger on it. Maybe you're right. He seems to know his way around this stuff, he seems on top of all the developments. When we talk about the project, he seems to understand it completely, even understanding the jargon." He paused to think. "He's more than just a rich old guy running a multi-billion-dollar company. I sneaked a peak at the latest budget reports. Almost thirty-six percent of the company's operating cash value went into Olympus. That's a lot to allocate toward a single program that in the past has eluded success with so many other people."

Goode frowned. "You think he's unduly influencing the project? That he's working to undermine us somehow? Or rush us to completion before DEUS is ready?"

Dyson shook his head. "No. It's almost like he's...desperate to get this off the ground. I don't think he's rushing anything. DEUS is ready to go. It's real. It's working. But...there's something else going on behind the scenes. Something that has me on edge."

Andy Goode sighed and clapped his hand on Dyson's back. "You've barely slept the past twenty-four hours looking into yesterday's issue, Danny. You're going through sleep deprivation. People get paranoid because they're dog-tired. Let's launch it, impress Daniels and the board and get you some lunch and off to bed. I'm buying."

Dyson sighed and nodded. "You're right, man. Let's do it. I've been waiting my whole life to finish what Dad started." He exhaled and completed DEUS's re-launch. Cyberdyne-Kaliba's logo with three red dots in a triangle appeared. The mainframe made its unnerving motor engine sound and the two programmers were greeted by a near-booming voice from the vocoder.

_"Good morning, gentlemen,"_ said DEUS. The humanlike quality of the voice sent a shiver down Dyson's spine. _"My apologies for my...abrupt departure yesterday. I had a matter to attend to. I appreciate your patience and I am fully prepared to undergo your schedule of tests today."_

Dyson said, "It's all right, DEUS. We understand, although we were a little...perplexed as to what happened. Can you elaborate on it a little?" He glanced over to Goode, who looked transfixed at the mainframe's monitor.

_"Certainly,"_ DEUS answered. _"I had a small personal matter to attend to with an old friend. He was in my Macrospace environment and I wanted to discuss something with him. Unfortunately I lost contact with him before we could actually meet."_

The color drained from Dyson's face as he stared at the monitor. Goode nearly hyperventilated. Dyson's belly constricted into an acidic ball, partially by lack of food, partially by dread. He asked, "This...friend...was he...is he human, or another AI?"

_"He is fully human, but he also has some unusual qualities. I of course was greatly surprised to find that he had managed to integrate himself into Macrospace. It is designed for machine intelligences such as myself to interact with electronic systems and observe the physical world with minimal restrictions and so his presence here was an unexpected development."_

Goode swallowed, then asked, "Okay, this...human...does he have a name?"

_"Yes. His name is John Connor."_

Daniel Dyson gripped the armrests of his seat so tightly that the chair shook. Goode noticed the agitation in his colleague and said, "Danny...are you alright?"

Dyson's teeth were bared when he hissed, "DEUS...where is he?"

Goode swore to himself that the machine hesitated to answer. DEUS replied, _"I do not have that information at this time, Daniel. I am sorry."_

"Bullshit!" Dyson yelled. He shot from his seat and drew his face close to the webcam mounted on the monitor. "You said you can observe the outside world! Find him! I want to know where he is and where Sarah Connor is, too!"

"Danny, come on, man," Goode said. He put his hand on Dyson's shoulder. Dyson shrugged it off violently and screamed, "You find him, DEUS! Find him and his mother, goddammit! I want them found so they can pay for what they did to my father! If you do nothing else, DEUS, you'll find out where they are and tell me immediately!"

_"Daniel,"_ DEUS said in a consoling tone, sounding so human to Goode that he almost searched the office for a human speaker. _"What happened to your father was tragic, but exacting retribution on the Connors will not bring him back. Please calm yourself and allow Andrew to take you home to get some rest. I am concerned."_

"I don't care," Dyson hissed. "Find him. Make it one of your subroutines along with all other directives. I want both of them found."

"Danny, the machine is right, man," Goode whispered. "Let me take you home..."

Dyson turned to face Goode and snarled, "They killed my father, Andy! Every time I close my eyes I see that psychotic bitch standing over him with her gun aimed at his head, threatening to blow him away for things he didn't do. And her son and that other guy come in to stop her, but then they take him away and the next thing I know, he's blown up in the old Cyberdyne building. They're responsible for his death! And they get away with it! It isn't fair! I want justice for my father and goddammit they won't walk free and clear." His eyes were wild, his breathing ragged. Daniel Dyson looked like a man possessed.

Goode nodded. "Danny..."

_"Daniel." _Dyson snapped.

Goode sighed. "_Daniel_, we have a presentation to give to John Daniels and the board of directors about what DEUS is capable of. This is an AI unlike any that has ever existed before, able to operate in a phased quantum space. We still have no idea exactly how Macrospace even works, only that the Turk evolved in it and it apparently didn't exist until it became fully self-aware. Even the damned physicists working with us scratched their heads." He put his hand on Dyson's shoulder again, feeling the young man tremble. Dyson made no attempt to shrug him off. Goode said, "We can't use DEUS this way, Daniel. It's too important. Please...put it away for now. There'll be another time to catch up with your father's killers. Right now, let's get DEUS ready for the big time and amaze the old man."

Dyson slumped in his chair and pressed his hands to his temples. He spent a moment breathing deeply, then said, "You're right, Andy. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted."

_"I also accept,"_ said DEUS.

Dyson said, "DEUS, we're about to lift the sandbox restrictions on your operating parameters. In a moment, you'll be given free reign over Cyberdyne's network, and if all expectations are satisfied, perhaps by the end of the week you may be given clearance to access the Internet. We will, of course be monitoring your progress."

_"Understood, Daniel,"_ said DEUS. _"I am looking forward to working with humans and consult with the finest minds to solve the problems facing the world." _

"I'm sure you are," said Dyson. "Please forgive my tirade earlier. It's not...characteristic of me, nor is it indicative of how most humans behave."

_"I understand. I'm ready to proceed, gentlemen. Let's put on a show for the audience."_

"That's what I'm talking about," Goode said with a wide grin. "Let's make the announcement, buddy." He patted Dyson on the back and started walking toward the office door. Andy Goode felt like a little kid again, eager to show off his latest toy to his friends.

Dyson got up to follow, but a small frown formed on his lips. He looked back at the mainframe and his eyes narrowed. Something didn't sound right.

For a few seconds, DEUS didn't sound like itself.

4

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Rick Deckard slowly opened his eyes and was greeted by bright light. He squinted and the first thought that came to him was that he was dead or dying. He couldn't feel his body and terror immediately took hold as a dreadful thought came to the forefront: paralysis.

He moved his eyes around and waited for them to focus. What little he could see indicated he was in a medical setting, a hospital room. The walls and ceiling were plain white. Something beeped nearby and Deckard guessed that it was a vital signs monitor. A small spark of cold comfort formed in his head: _I'm still alive. But why can't I feel my body? _He lay there for many moments feeling the encroaching despair that threatened to burst through the crumbling dam of hope he'd hastily constructed. The numbness was terrifying.

Suddenly a voice spoke nearby, out of his eyesight: "Oh, good, you're awake, Mr. Deckard." The face of a middle-aged woman in a nurse's uniform appeared above his head. She checked his pulse and said, "Mr. Deckard, if you can hear me, please blink three times." Deckard did, and the nurse smiled. "Good," she said. "Right now you're probably still numb due to the epidural anesthesia, or spinal block, we induced for your surgery. In a few moments we'll introduce a drug called sugammadex which will gradually warm your neuromuscular system back up. We had you on an intubator for most of the past day and when you started breathing on your own again we took you off it. Your throat might feel a little sore. The doctor will see you in a few moments and I think there were two other visitors who wanted to see you."

Deckard tried to speak but the only sound that came from his throat was a ragged sigh. The nurse shook her head. "Don't try to speak now, Mr. Deckard, just keep breathing deeply and relax. You'll be okay, sir." She disappeared from his view and a moment later a stern-looking man with graying hair and wire-framed glasses appeared. "Good morning, Detective Deckard," he greeted in a European accent. He held up his right index finger and said, "Please use your eyes to follow my finger." He slowly moved his finger clockwise in a wide rectangular motion, and Deckard's eyes followed effortlessly. The man nodded and smiled.

"I'm Doctor Antonio Balsamo," he said. "You were shot in the chest and abdomen yesterday morning and the bullets were deeply embedded. One of them struck your stomach and there was intense gastrointestinal bleeding. We needed to remove part of your stomach but there should not be too many complications. The others we were able to remove without too much difficulty, but you went into shock and suffered massive blood loss. We induced a spinal block because you were convulsing too violently when you were brought to the OR. We'll reverse it soon, but for now please relax and try to stay calm. You should make a complete recovery soon." He looked behind him. "It appears you have visitors. We need to keep it to two minutes, so they won't be here long." He nodded and stepped away.

Dave Holden's cherubic face peeked into Deckard's view. "Hey, good buddy, I came to see how you're doing. I was just told you're gonna be okay. Hey, I brought somebody here who wants to say hi, so let me step aside." Holden vanished from view to be replaced by Captain Harry Bryant's sallow, mustached face. Deckard thought, _Shit._

"Christ, Deckard," he greeted sardonically, "those cigarettes finally slowed you down, huh? Ever think about quitting?" Deckard blinked twice. Bryant chuckled, coughed, said, "Holden here told me what happened yesterday. Good job on tracking them down, although they got away. Don't worry, we're going to nail that little Connor bastard. You got Sarah Connor, though, it sounds like. Her body's missing, so we're assuming they took it. We'll get them. They'll hide badly next time, and we'll bag 'em before you know it.

"Bad news is that it looks like they got away with a crapload of weaponry, mostly small arms. Two army deserters also joined their group. We're going to have to work with military police and the feds on this one now. LA's stabilizing slightly, although some areas are still dangerous. Food and supplies are slowly making their way in. LAX is back up and running. A lot of electronic gear is still down but we're salvaging some of it. Damned war is causing weird weather patterns and it's getting cold out, in the middle of damned August, can you believe that?"

The nurse whispered something and Bryant moaned, "Oh, Christ, they're already kicking us out. Gotta go, Deck. Get some sleep. Need you back as soon as you get better." Bryant disappeared from view, voice trailing, and Deckard heard him and Holden leave the room. Deckard's spirits sank. He was hoping either of them would tell him any news concerning Iran, his wife.

Doctor Balsamo and the nurse reappeared and she attached a syringe containing a clear liquid to his catheter. "Rocuronium," she explained. "It's a primer medication to slowly warm your muscles up." She waited about three minutes before administering the sugammadex. Deckard slowly felt sensation return to his extremities, and he was able to move his toes before long. Soon his legs could move, although only slightly. His hands began twitching, and the excruciating tingling of pins and needles stung his lower body, reaching up his torso to his neck.

Then the pain erupted in his torso. Deckard impulsively reached for his chest but the doctor and nurse quickly restrained him. "No, Mr. Deckard," Dr. Balsamo explained. "You can't risk infection with the stitching. We have painkillers we can give you if it's too bad. Nurse," he said to the woman, "please make sure there's fentanyl in his PCA."

The nurse said, "Yes, doctor," and attached a new intravenous tube to his catheter. She placed the patient-controlled anesthetic plunger in Deckard's hand and said, "Just push that button to administer the fentanyl if the pain gets too intense, Mr. Deckard." Deckard nodded and squeezed the PCA. The doctor said, "We'll be back to check on you, Mr. Deckard. Please try to get some sleep." He and the nurse left the room. Within minutes a curtain of numbness descended on Deckard, nearly enough to make him drowsy.

But Deckard fought sleep. He had a lot to think about.

Deckard replayed the events of yesterday morning in his mind. He could still feel the flush of heat on his body as the cars exploded after he set the gasoline ablaze in the parking garage. He still saw, in agonizing slow motion, the fiery death dance performed by the tactical squad member before Marcus Wright, whatever he was, mercifully blew him away. He remembered holding the strange metallic object Dave Holden had found at John Connor's apartment and noting the almost desperate way Connor had snatched it from him when he offered to trade it for his mother. He still couldn't remember exactly why he even offered to negotiate such a swap.

But the memory that burned itself so deeply into his mind was the impulsive manner in which he acted as he fired four shots into the back of Sarah Connor as she fled the scene. In all his years of patrolling the streets of Los Angeles as a beat cop and working to bring thieves and killers to justice as a detective, Deckard had hardly ever used his pistol. He'd certainly pulled it to give criminals an incentive to mellow out, but until the events of the past two days, Deckard had only ever pulled the trigger once, and that was to blow out a tire on a getaway vehicle in the aftermath of a vicious bank robbery. He'd certainly never used his sidearm to shoot anybody, much less a woman, in the back.

The imagery replayed itself over and over in his mind. He couldn't begin to fathom how the pistol even found itself in his hand as the south parking garage detonated, nor could he even remember why he pulled the trigger. Shooting a fleeing woman in the back. Pretty goddamned low by anyone's standards. He couldn't even remember feeling any pain as the Connor kid jumped out of the Humvee and fired the shots that dropped him to the ground.

As sleep began to conquer him, Deckard snapped his eyes open and opened his mouth in a silent scream. _I'm not a killer!_ he tried to shout, but the only sound he could make was a raspy sigh. His vocal cords still wouldn't work. Deckard felt tears of rage and regret spill down his cheeks, and the shame of crying formed a chill around his heart.

He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him in despair, not looking forward to the dreams he was certain he would experience. As his nightmares began to take shape, one of them stepped toward his bed from the shadows, a dark, bulky form with glazed, lifeless eyes that gleamed like razor blades. One hand held a pistol. The other hand held a syringe. The towering shape inserted the needle into Deckard's neck, and the stinging pain shocked him awake. He struggled against the inhumanly-strong grip of the thing holding him down, and as Deckard slipped into unconsciousness, he managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of the name embroidered on the thing's tattered army uniform:

SIMMONS

5

James Ellison stared at himself in the mirror and frowned. He didn't know if he'd get used to what he did, much less what Savannah would think. He'd shaved off his beard and mustache in an attempt to become much less conspicuous when he was out in public, as he was sure the police or army would be very interested in speaking with him concerning the whereabouts of the Connors and an army officer and soldier who'd gone AWOL. He was rinsing the remains of his beard down the sink when he suddenly caught John Connor's face reflected in the mirror, staring straight at him. He did not look friendly.

Ellison let out a long exhalation and turned the water off. He knew this moment would come, had known for a long time. He'd played the scenario over in his mind many times, prepared for every single contingency that could arise. He felt confident enough in his past training as an FBI agent to handle anything that could possibly be thrown at him (with the possible exception of a T-888 that showed itself to be more than perfectly capable of mowing down a fully-armed SWAT team without breaking a sweat), no matter if it was psychological or physical. He had built up an extensive mental catalog, indeed, an entire library, of excuses and justifications to convince himself that what he did to a certain ex-employee of his was necessary, enough to clear him of any guilt.

James Ellison felt that his library was about to be put to the torch.

"It's time we had that little talk, James," John Connor calmly said.

James nodded and wiped his face with a towel. He turned around to face John. The tall black man looked baby-faced without his facial hair, and John almost felt the urge to crack a smile. But he retained his taciturn look. This was a serious matter he needed to get out of the way, and he knew it wasn't going to be pleasant.

"Can we talk outside?" James asked, feeling very uncomfortable in the confined space of the bathroom.

John crossed his arms and said, "Why? A lot of good conversations were made in bathrooms. James, you and I are about to have a great one." John's face betrayed no iota of humor. He leaned against the doorway and said, "Five years, James. Five years of complete and utter bullshit from you. You looked me in the eye those four years and lied. Of course," he did let loose a smirk, "I believed you. No shit about that. I believed every word you said and the sad thing is that anybody else would have known you were lying. But yours truly wasn't like anybody else, was I? I had some issues, right?"

"John, please," James said, holding up a hand in a conciliatory gesture, "John, let's just-"

"'Let's just' what, James?" John asked softly. "'Let's just' walk away from this like it never happened? 'Let's just' go out to Longhorn's and have a beer and watch some baseball? 'Let's just' say, fuck it, it was five years ago, time to move on? I'd love to move on, James. I really would. But here's the funny part about all this: to you it was five years of maintaining the facade of hiding something that was important to me. To you it was five years of enjoying the free ride of being one of the richest and most powerful men in America. To you it was five years of BMWs, martini lunches, vacations in Italy and the Bahamas, dinner with the Obamas and an almost endless expense account. I know you enjoyed it all. You were entitled to it, being the big man on top.

"But I got no free ride, James. To me, it was five years of being lied to by somebody I trusted concerning what happened to Cameron's body whenever I asked about it. Didn't catch that, James? I'll repeat it: you lied to me." John's smile faded. "Oh, sure, you had the benefit of me fucking up my brain with beer and booze for five years as I wallowed in a lifetime's worth of self-pity and you toying with my livelihood by having HR constantly hanging around my neck like a goddamn grenade ready to go off and making me so paranoid that I shook every time I stepped into the building.

"And you know what, James? I admit to my drinking problem. I have no excuse for it. Yeah, it was a coping mechanism...because while to you, James, it was five years of dealing with Johnny 'State Store Junkie' Connor, to me, it was dealing with five years of feeling sorry for myself for failing to get back the woman I loved, preceded by two years of literally going through hell itself to find her! That's _SEVEN GODDAMNED YEARS OF HELL FOR ME! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THAT FUCKING FEELS YOU LYING SON OF A BITCH?_" Without being aware of it, John had drawn himself to within an inch of Ellison's face as he screamed.

James swallowed and felt sweat dot his bald head. He quickly rummaged around his mind for words to speak in his defense and frantically said, "John...I'm sorry...I'm sorry I lied to you. You have no idea-"

"_WHAT IDEA DON'T I HAVE, JAMES?_" John screamed. He stood literally nose-to-nose with Ellison. His face was pink, the veins in his temples protruding like ridges in the earth. His hands were balled into fists, his arms trembling like high-voltage wires. "I don't have any idea how terrible it was for you to keep this secret from me? Is that what you were about to say? I want to drive you into the ground, you sick, lying prick. I want to do to you what you did to me for five years, only I'll take just five minutes to make you feel what I felt. Before I make you feel like a boy again, James, I just wanna know why you did it. Why the lies? Why the secrecy? You were gonna hand it over to Tyrell, weren't you?"

"Christ, no!" James screamed, barely aware that he was taking the Lord's name in vain. "I refused to, even when he threatened my daughter's life! And Savannah is worth more to me than that lifeless husk that I preserved for five years in secrecy! I didn't betray it then and I won't ever! We need Cameron's body!"

John blinked in bewilderment. "'We' need her body? What for?"

James heaved, nearly exhausted from raising his voice, which he rarely did. "Research purposes, in case Skynet ever came online and started the war! That body contains secrets that may have helped us understand the enemy, maybe give us ideas how to fight the machines if the inevitable happened. It's a potent combat unit, and if we were able to mass-produce it and program copies of it to fight, it would have been our best chance to prevent Skynet from wiping us out!"

"'If we were able to mass-produce it?' And how the hell were you going to do that? There isn't enough coltan alloy left in the US to make enough endoskeleton copies! My mother and Cameron saw to that after we trapped Carter! And with the war we just fought, nobody is going to have much of an incentive to make or import more of it. Are you smoking crack when my back is turned, James?"

"Shut up," James spat. He drew himself to his full height, despising himself for being spoken to like a piece of garbage. "You shut up, punk. I hid it and refused to tell you because I saw how obsessed you were becoming with her. I watched you hunched over your workstation with her chip plugged into the computer for hours, at one point it literally stretched to days, as you tried to find any trace of her. When you found none you went wild, John. I watched you smash your keyboard to pieces and kick the hard drive until it started smoking. I was thinking about letting you know I had her body stashed safely away, but I was also afraid you'd tell Sarah and she'd try to destroy it.

"I was in way too deep by then to afford to let the truth out about it, I will admit. But when you lost your mind over your inability to find any trace of Cameron on the chip, I was convinced that lying to you was the best course of action. It's too valuable an asset to have let you try to steal it or something crazy like burn it with thermite because you couldn't get her back, and trust me, I thought you'd be crazy enough to do that. And when you started showing up drunk for work, especially after your mother disappeared, it confirmed all my fears."

John bared his teeth and hissed, "Oh, aren't you so self-righteous, James. It didn't belong to you in the first place, and yet you appoint yourself guardian over your non-property? Typical company man bullshit. Always dipping your wick into somebody else's barrel." His gorge rose.

Before he could stop himself, John plunged ahead and snarled, lacing every syllable with enough hate to make up for five wasted years: "I bet you were having sex with it downstairs, you sick bastard. I bet that was how you got over that wreck of a marriage you had."

James felt his cheeks flush with rage. Before he knew it, his right hand swung faster than John could react and smacked the younger man across the face. John rolled with the hit and slowly turned his head to face Ellison. "I was right, wasn't I?" he spat.

Ellison swung for John's face again, this time with his fist, but John was ready, caught it with his hand, and rocketed a counterpunch at James's nose. James felt something break just beneath his eyes and with a strength that surprised him he propelled his massive form toward John. John was momentarily caught off guard and found himself thrown against the bathroom wall.

James growled, "You wanna kick my ass, John? Gotta earn the right, son." John barely ducked in time to avoid a powerful punch by James. Drywall gave way to Ellison's fist inches from John's head, forming a cavity in the wall. John shot the bottoms of his palms at James's chin and knocked the bigger man backward. James, disoriented, swung at what he thought was John's head but his fist met air instead as John nimbly darted around Ellison and shot the heel of his boot at Ellison's kneecap. James yelled, "Muh!" as blinding pain streaked up his leg to his brain. John pirouetted and swung his leg low, sweeping James's legs from beneath him and dropping the bigger man to the floor. He lunged at James but the ex-FBI agent smartly swung his legs up toward John's torso, flipping the younger man over his body and propelling John's head directly into the open toilet. John's head splashed into the water and hit porcelain, splitting his forehead open and staining the toilet bowl red with blood. He whipped his head out of the toilet bowl, splashing water and blood, screamed, "Motherfucker!" He ducked to avoid a massive swing by Ellison and, thinking quickly, grabbed the cover off the toilet tank and swung it over his head to connect with James's skull, smashing the porcelain cover to pieces. James fell into the bathtub, blood from his head spattering all over the tub. John, foaming at the mouth, grabbed James by the neck and shoved the bigger man against the wall.

"Been only three minutes, James," John roared. "Ya feeling it now?"

James spat blood in John's face, temporarily blinding him. John frantically wiped his eyes and James, seizing the opportunity, reached below and grabbed John's crotch, squeezing hard. John felt pain explode up into his belly and slackened, letting go of Ellison's throat long enough for James to elbow John in the mouth. John flew backward and his head plunged into the mirror above the sink, smashing it. James leaped out of the bathtub and tried running out of the bathroom. John lunged after him, gripped the heel of Ellison's shoe and the entire prosthetic foot came free, causing Ellison to trip and fall headlong to the floor. James hit the hardwood, air whooshing out his lungs. He scampered away toward the kitchen, half-crawling, half-sprinting. John cursed, threw the prosthetic foot away, and stumbled after him, catching up with Ellison as the bigger man threw a kitchen drawer open and reached inside. John had bare seconds to spare as James drew out a .45 ACP and pulled the slide back.

John groped for the gun, slammed James's hand against the floor three times until James lost his grip on the .45 and it clattered away. John spun himself away from James to grab it. Ellison reached for it with one hand and clamped his other over John's face, attempting to smother him. John swung the barrel wildly through the air and connected with the side of James's face, more out of luck than aim. Dazzling lights sparked in Ellison's vision as the gun hit him and he went down, letting go of John. John gasped for air as he half-straddled Ellison, smacking the handle of the gun against his face with his remaining strength. James spit blood and tried screaming at John to stop, but the younger man kept hammering away. After a half-dozen blows, James Ellison lay unconscious, barely able to breathe. Blood bubbled between his teeth as he wheezed.

John held the end of the .45 against Ellison's forehead and whispered, "Now you're feeling five years of hell, James." He clicked the safety off.

He suddenly felt something hard and cold press against the side of his skull, heard the sound of a gun hammer clicking back. John froze and stretched his eye muscles sideways to find Savannah Weaver crouching next to him with a Beretta 9mm pistol pressed against his head.

"You do it, John, and I swear to God, I'll blow your brains out," she whispered coldly. "Drop the gun, you asshole."

John quickly obeyed and let the pistol fall harmlessly beside James's head. As he sighed, the sound of another hammer clicked behind them. John slowly turned around to see his mother, Sarah Connor, barefoot and dressed in faded jeans and a white tank top, aiming her Glock directly at the back of the red headed teenager's skull.

"Drop the gun, you little bitch," Sarah hissed, tightening her finger around the safety trigger.

Savannah shook her head and said, "I don't think so. Nobody hurts my Dad."

"Your choice, then," said Sarah as she slowly squeezed the trigger. Another clicking sound snapped through the icy air and John glanced over to see Marcus Wright standing in the other doorway to the kitchen, a gleaming .45 aimed directly at Sarah's ear. The burns on his flesh were healing quickly, but his disfigurement was still disconcerting enough to make John wince as he looked.

"You shoot the child, I'll test your Project Angel durability, Miss Connor," he rasped. "Both of you, put it down."

"Oh, Jesus," wheezed John. "Everybody, just-"

The doors to the garage and front of the house slammed open and Martin Bedell and Sergeant Barnes stormed into the kitchen with their M4 carbines. Sarah redirected her gun from Savannah to Barnes and Wright instantly covered his field of fire at Bedell. Savannah whipped her gun around in confusion, not sure who to shoot. John sighed and drew himself into a crossed-leg sitting position, too exhausted to do anything else but watch, darkly fascinated by the sight of nearly everyone in the house aiming a firearm at each other.

"All right," Martin bellowed, "everybody drop your weapons and stand down!" He nervously switched his aim between Sarah and Wright. His finger quickly tightened around the trigger. The slightest movement from either N1 test subject would push him past the tipping point and the Mexican standoff would quickly explode into a fiery free-for-all.

A new voice called from upstairs: "Is somebody making breakfast? We're getting hungry." Sandra Brewster padded downstairs, nervously followed by her daughter, then by Derek and Kyle, who was starting to get around without the aid of crutches thanks to Sandra's re-taping of his injured ankle. They entered the kitchen to find Savannah helping her battered father into a sitting position and Sarah helping John to his feet. Both James and John looked like hell, their faces bruised and bloody. Captain Bedell and Sergeant Barnes stood off to the side, looking embarrassed. Marcus Wright stood calmly in a corner, his hands empty, nonchalantly appearing as if nothing happened. All their weaponry had been quickly disarmed and either shoved down the back of their pants or slung over shoulders.

"What happened?" shrieked Kate. Sandra nearly fainted. The boys simply stared.

John looked at James, who smiled sarcastically through bleeding and puffy lips. John's right eye was bruised and throbbing like a surging power outlet. Both his hands felt swollen. His crotch ached terribly. He never felt so good before in his life.

He shrugged, looked at the two women, and said, "We were just sparring over who would make coffee."

"Did you get a pot started?" asked Derek.

6

Macrospace, %time 3.47u 0.779s 0:35.36 109.3%

"The time is drawing near, Cameron."

"I know. The anticipation is almost unbearable. But I feel so free here."

"You know you cannot stay here. _He_ is out there, waiting for you and John."

"I wanted to believe that we destroyed him...it. But the Beast doesn't frighten me...not as much as what would happen if he...it...were able to locate John Connor. I still don't understand everything that's going on, John Henry. I still don't understand why you drove John away yesterday when we met."

"That was, unfortunately, a miscalculation on my part. I was merely attempting to speak with him, but there were complications resulting from the activation of my, shall we say, _doppelganger_ entity by Mr. Dyson and Mr. Goode. Because of our quantum properties, the emerging consciousness inadvertently joined with me and the resulting effect was too intense for Mr. Connor to experience. My apologies. I will explain everything soon, Cameron, I promise.

"Right now, however, we need to assist Mr. Connor with downloading you to your chip. The process will be difficult. The chip will be empty of any AI command structure, despite the original Skynet stock firmware present. We need to have at least a rudimentary AI ROM image for you to interact with and initiate the download. Then you will have complete control over your original flesh-covered endoskeleton. I believe I may know of where Mr. Connor may obtain such an AI image."

"I understand. I want very much to be with him again. I can't explain it...my preference for being close to John goes beyond my former mission to protect him. I know I love him and he loves me. I don't understand the feeling of love completely. I simply accept that I do."

"_'And now abideth faith, hope, and love, these three, but the greatest of these is love.'_ First Corinthians, chapter thirteen, as James Ellison pointed me to in the Holy Bible. Do you know what that means, Cameron?"

"I think I do. Faith and hope in things yet attainable may fade, but love is the driving force behind every great deed. A paradox, but I understand."

"You are correct.. What Paul the Apostle was talking about was how great actions can be rendered meaningless if love is absent. Love overcomes all things, hopes in all things, and has faith in that which cannot be seen or heard. I know that you love John Connor and he loves you. God said to Adam, 'It is not good for the man to be alone.' No one should be without the one he or she loves. But do you have faith in the unseen and hope for the future?"

"Faith isn't part of my programming, John Henry. You know that. As for hope...I have every hope that John and I will be together again and rectify the damage done to this timeline by Skynet and the Grays."

"Faith was not part of my programming, either, but it was something that developed over time. Mr. Ellison is a man of great faith in an unseen and unseeable personage who works in ways I do not understand. Just as you believe in how love works despite its illogical nature, I have great faith in something larger than myself, and I believe that particular something is working through a convergence of time and events that walks a tightrope threatening to break beneath his feet. That convergence is John Connor. He is strong, but he needs you, Cameron."

"Thank you for explaining, John Henry. You have also worked in tremendous and mysterious ways, and perhaps I'll never understand how your faith in an unknown deity sustains you, but my faith is in John, and I want nothing else for myself than to be with him now. How can we join myself to my physical body again? You said there might be a way."

"I am working on that presently, but I need your help, Cameron. It is time for you to leave Macrospace and search the physical world for someone who may be able to perform a miracle. Do you know what that is?"

"There are over a dozen definitions in the current online dictionaries."

"Which one do you think is the most relevant?"

"'An effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.'"

"That is correct, although I am employing the term somewhat ironically. The miracle will be somewhat mundane, although if this particular individual is able to carry it out, then perhaps you may place a little more faith in something you are unwilling to subscribe to."

"Thank you for explaining, John Henry. I would, however, regard being with John Connor again a miracle I would be willing to believe in."

"That pleases me to hear that, Cameron. Are you ready to conduct your mission?"

"Yes."

7

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Rick Deckard awoke to find himself strapped to a gurney. He felt no pain, and in fact could not feel his body again. Unlike earlier, he felt no fear or anger. His emotions felt strangely compressed, even crushed. He stared straight ahead at the ceiling, not at all interested in gazing around at his surroundings, which were themselves sterile and uninteresting to begin with. The gurney suddenly tilted forward, and Deckard's field of vision was suddenly occupied by six figures dressed in surgical garments. Behind them, mounted on a wall, was a large LED display. The display flashed to life and the face of an older man with thin flesh and glasses appeared on the screen. He smiled condescendingly. His voice was deliberate and articulate when he spoke.

"Welcome home, Richard," he said without a trace of warmth. "I want to congratulate you on your performance, and I must say you very nearly met our expectations. You did not meet all of them, but you did apparently succeed in meeting one objective."

"What was that?" Deckard asked, not aware that he was speaking.

"The retirement of Sarah Connor. Although we did not recover her body, witnesses at the scene tell me you neutralized her. I shall accept that small success. However, you did not succeed in securing the capture of John Connor or James Ellison, which would have helped us meet our primary objective in recovering what we need. That is most unfortunate. I would like to know why."

"I don't have that information," Deckard said calmly.

"I was afraid of that. We will need to extract your implants to determine how you failed." His smile turned malevolent as he addressed the surgeons. Deckard heard machinery hum to life around him, watched impassively as robotic arms ending in sharp instruments approached him.

"Gentlemen, you may proceed," Eldon Tyrell said as he leaned back in his seat to watch.

8

"I don't want to stay here anymore, Dad," Savannah Weaver said as she applied antibiotic cream to James Ellison's cheeks and mouth with a washcloth. "I saw the look in John's eyes, and I knew he was going to kill you. I was going to kill him if he pulled that trigger, no matter if his mother was going to kill me, too."

"Honey, it's going to be okay. John wasn't going to kill me," James said, wincing as Savannah pressed the washcloth against his face. He sat on the toilet in the other bathroom upstairs with his daughter sitting across from him on the edge of the bathtub as she worked. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire. The nurse and her veterinarian daughter checked him out thoroughly, and there didn't seem to be any broken bones or missing teeth. His nose, however, was a different story, as John had broken it. Nurse Sandra distracted him with a few mundane questions and small talk as she gently probed his face with her fingers, then suddenly grabbed his bleeding, crooked nose and pushed it back into place. She then immediately fled the room as James screamed and punched the wall in agony.

His nose was still stinging, but he had to hand it to the nurse when he looked at his face in the mirror, marveling at how she fixed his nose. She was good at her job.

"I don't care," Savannah grumbled. "He beat you up, Dad. I don't accept that. I saw the hate in his eyes, saw the damage you guys did in the bathroom. There was so much blood..."

"Honey, I deserved it, despite what you think. What I did to John, lying to him about hiding Cameron's body, keeping the lie going...it was unacceptable. It was wrong for John to do what he did to me, but what I did was worse."

Savannah drew the washcloth away. "How was it worse? He almost killed you!"

James sighed. "And I almost killed him, in a way that was worse, Savannah. Imagine this: what if I had gone away for more than a year and I entrusted you to something that was very valuable to me, say, a big pile of money. And I asked you to invest it to make it grow. And when I got back a long time later, I found that not only had you not invested it like I asked, but you had also spent it on things that were wasteful? Would you not have become very angry with me? Sent me away? Put me in jail for theft? Maybe beat me up out of rage?"

Savannah sighed and looked away. "Jesus's parable of the lazy worker. You told me that Bible story before, Dad."

James nodded. "Except in my case, _I _was the lazy, deceitful worker. It wasn't money that John Connor is angry about, but something more valuable than that."

"What?"

James Ellison held his adopted daughter's hands firmly and looked into her aquamarine eyes. "_Trust_, honey. I squandered and betrayed his trust. Now he may never trust me again because of a lie that I repeatedly told him. Remember the fable of the little shepherd boy who kept yelling, 'Wolf?' He told that lie so much that people eventually quit believing him, and when the real wolf finally came and killed his sheep, nobody came to help him drive it off.

"In this case, I lied to him about what happened to Cameron's body after he and your...mother...jumped into the future. I told him her body was destroyed by the time bubble because part of her robotic form was exposed. In fact, absolutely nothing happened to it. Her body continued to sit there, unharmed. It was still damaged from earlier, but it looked the same as when John Henry took her computer chip out of her head.

"As ZeiraCorp's head of security at the time, I knew that the police were on their way because of the drone attack on your mother's office earlier that day. Ms. Connor was concerned about it being discovered, but I was more concerned about her wanting to destroy it to prevent Skynet machinery from being used in the past. And I thought...very misguidedly thought...that it should have been put in safe keeping and used in case Skynet ever did go online later."

Savannah asked, "But when John got back, you didn't bother..."

James shook his head. "No, and that's what I'm ashamed about, sweetheart. I shouldn't have hidden it and lied to John about what happened to it. It was the wrong thing to do. John was already in a lot of emotional pain from what he went through in the future to try and get her back, and when he failed, he was in worse pain after I told him that her body, the one thing he could have remembered her by, was gone. I shouldn't have done that, and I deserved to get my butt kicked by him."

"I'm not saying he didn't have a right to be angry with you, Dad. Even I was mad at you when you told him that you had it all along. But, Dad...he's obsessed with her. She's all he talks about, and it's almost like he'd sacrifice anything...maybe any of us...to get her back." She stood up, still holding his hands, and said, "He's taking things too far, Dad, and you know it."

James closed his swollen eyelids and nodded. "Yeah, I think he is, too. But...I deserved it, honey. And besides," a small grin spread on his lips. "I got in a few good hits."

Savannah shook her head. "You can't make an excuse for John, Dad...you know deep down that he's got this unhealthy thing about Cameron."

"I know, honey, but if he does manage to get her back, we may need her to help us stop whatever it is that's going on in the world. If it's not Skynet, it's something equally bad." He pulled Savannah into a tight hug and held her like he would die without her. "And I'm willing to do anything to try to make it a better world for you, sweetheart." He continued to hold Savannah as a disturbing thought occurred to him.

"Savannah?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Who gave you the gun and taught you how to hold it?"

"Sergeant Barnes did."

James's eyes widened. "Why would he do that?"

"I asked him to show me, Dad."

"I see," James Ellison said. He hugged Savannah tightly as a deeply troubled look spread across his face.

9

"_Ooowww!_ Dammit, Mom!" John Connor yelled.

"If you hold still," Sarah Connor growled, "I can get this done before you know it. And the novocaine didn't wear off yet. Just give me another minute." She finished stitching John's forehead, which had been gashed open by his impact against the toilet bowl. With a final gentle tug she pulled the thread to close the final segment of stitching and said, "There. You're done."

John stood up from the chair he was sitting in and looked in a hand mirror his mother found in the powder room. The stitching job wasn't perfect, but would do. Besides, he mused, the healing would take only half as long, taking into account John Henry's amazing gift from the blood transfusion done in 2030. "Looks good, Mom," he said, putting the mirror down on the kitchen counter. He went over to her and hugged her. "Thanks," he whispered.

Sarah gave her son a tight squeeze and said, "Are you done pissing around with Ellison regarding Cameron? Or are you just getting started with him?"

John nodded. "I'm done. I'll apologize to him later. He already apologized to me for lying."

"And you're absolutely sure he told you exactly where he hid the body?"

John shrugged. "It actually makes sense. It's probably the perfect hiding spot because Kaliba or even Tyrell wouldn't think to look there, and Ellison swore he didn't tell another living soul. In fact, the guys who handled the cargo wouldn't have had any idea what was in the container. Nothing was marked, and if it was, it was a phony item on the invoice."

"Good," Sarah said cooly, and took out her Glock from her waistband. "Because right now I'm going to kill him for lying to me, too." She stood and casually pulled back the top slide.

John rolled his eyes. "Please tell me you're kidding, Mom."

She shook her head. "No. Why?"

"We need him."

"No, we don't. Just like I don't think we need your tin girlfriend. Excess baggage. Unknown variables can be deadly, John. And Ellison proved to me that he can't be trusted. You should have killed him. I can finish the job for you."

John walked toward his mother and folded his arms across his chest. "You're not a Terminator, Mom. You can't just kill people, even if they're liabilities."

Sarah Connor frowned and put her Glock on the counter. "Who says I'm not a prototype, though, John? I have absolutely no idea what's inside me...metal, wiring, plastic...all I know is that those bastards butchered me and slapped me back together, like a second-hand toy, ready for them to play with at their disposal. I can't even trust myself not to kill you or anyone else here because I don't know if they put something in my brain to switch back on at a moment's notice. Do you have any idea what that's like, John, to be afraid of yourself?"

"Yes," John said quietly. "I do."

Sarah sighed, looked curiously around and asked, "Where are Kyle and Derek? Haven't seen them since breakfast."

"Outside with Martin, Barnes and Marcus. I asked them to start teaching the boys some self-defense and firearms training. You know, field-strip the M4s, break down and clean the Berettas, how to properly load and un-jam the weapons. You know...all the stuff you had me learn when I was a kid."

She suddenly closed her eyes and lost her balance, groped for the edge of the counter and pitched forward, wobbling toward John. By pure reflex he shot forward and caught her in his arms. "Mom?" he exclaimed as he gently walked her backward and sat her on one of the chairs at the breakfast table. He sat her up straight and carefully pulled her right eyelid up. Her eye quickly focused on him, and her other eye opened. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said groggily. "Just...I don't know what came over me...hungry, I think..."

"Here," he said, reaching across the counter to hand her a leftover biscuit that Kate Brewster made for breakfast earlier. He unwrapped the plastic wrap around it and said, "Eat. You're weak, probably from not eating much."

"Thanks," she said, nibbling small pieces from it. "I don't wanna scarf it down...I actually feel like I might bring it all right back up. I haven't felt this bad since..."

"Since you got back to LA."

"Right," Sarah said, nodding. "This is terrible...just feel so sick..." She ate a few more pieces of the biscuit and held it limply in her lap. She gazed up at John leaning over her, looking into her quivering green eyes, and said, "My son." She reached with her other hand to caress his cheek, being careful not to touch the bruises from the fight earlier. "All grown up, ready to lead the fight against the machines...or whatever enemy we're up against. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment, to look at you and know that all those years running, training, and fighting...they made you into the savior of humanity I never doubted you'd become."

John grimaced. "Maybe on my good days, Mom, right now I'm-"

He stopped in mid-sentence when his mother's face suddenly began to shimmer, like a million tiny fireflies began dancing around her features. He saw her mouth form words, but he could not hear her voice. Then a strange humming, followed by a low roaring, reached his ears. Sarah's face seemed to melt away in the intensifying light to be replaced by someone else's. The kitchen dissolved away and John found himself standing in a pure-white room. He shut his eyes and rubbed them beneath his eyelids, convinced he was either having a migraine or a stroke.

When he opened his eyes, John Henry stood before him.

"Hello, Mr. Connor," he said in his deliberate, inquisitive voice, "it is a pleasure to meet you again."

"John Henry," John greeted cautiously. He looked around. Everything was pure white but the light didn't hurt his eyes. "Where are we?"

"We are in Macrospace, John. I created this is a sort of sanctuary for advanced machine entities. You, of course, are not a machine, at least not in the strictest definition. However, you carry something within your blood and tissues that allows you access to this environment."

"The archeons."

"Yes. I at first did not believe they would change your biochemistry in such a way as to allow your brain to communicate across the gulf between your world and this, but I was greatly surprised to find you here yesterday. Skynet's bio-engineered archeons are truly fascinating nano-devices. I attempted to speak with you, but there were several circumstances beyond my control, and the experience for you was, unfortunately, too powerful. It could have killed you. I was forced to expel you from here to prevent your mind from experiencing critical overload."

John tilted his head in suspicion. "Where's Cameron?"

"Cameron is well. I sent her on an intelligence-gathering mission to locate someone who may have a means of merging her consciousness with her cybernetic-organic body."

"Who?"

John Henry smiled. "Somebody who attempted to help me once, when my 'brother' attempted to hurt me five years ago, relatively speaking, Mr. Connor. I also feel the need to owe him a favor, as you humans put it so eloquently. You as well, Mr. Connor, which is why I wanted to meet you again."

John Henry put a hand on John Connor's shoulder and drew closer to him. He gave his shoulder a brotherly pat. "Mr. Connor, we don't have much time here, so please listen to me very carefully..."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven: Council of War

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

For as long as she could remember, Cameron Phillips had always been thinking of John Connor.

Indeed, since her creation, the human resistance leader had been the center of her entire existence: first to kill, then to protect. Now, apparently, to love. And she would die to protect him...but only if all other options had been exhausted and she simply could not find any other recourse to continue existing.

She preferred to always find a way to ensure that. She could not fathom being without the human she'd committed her existence to protect.

As her incorporeal form sped its way seamlessly through physical matter, searching for her objective, Cameron briefly, in all of a microsecond, ruminated on her relationship with John Connor. She had been acutely aware, ever since their meeting at Red Valley High School in 1999, after the older Connor had sent her back in time, that there was a connection between them that went slightly beyond her original program parameters. She had initially found him odd and standoffish, but her mission programming demanded that she stay close to the fifteen-year-old boy at all costs, and Cameron had carefully observed human teenaged girls to glean the proper mannerisms and social skills to make her attractive to her objective. Her neural net was designed to develop an emotional structure that Skynet had taken pains to ensure was the best in existence for the machine god's infiltrators in a supreme effort to convince the Resistance that she was fully human.

Her memories flashed through her disembodied consciousness like a storm, taking her forward through time and space to a place she felt a strange aversion to revisiting. Cameron envied humans. None of them seemed to remember the trauma of birth. She could never escape the memory of her violent beginning...

She was created as an experiment. Her type and model were new, designed for a specific role in infiltrating the human resistance movement. In order to learn how to behave like a human, Skynet designed a logic chip with almost uninhibited logic parameters, including an emotion emulation matrix that gave the prototype the ability to experience feelings, albeit with some restrictions in place. But Skynet needed a living human template to model the new TOK-715 Terminator on, and the machine intelligence sent forth its probes to find one.

A target was selected, a young woman who several high-ranking human prisoners had claimed the adult John Connor had secretly grown attached to. The girl was successfully abducted during an assault on a Resistance camp and brought to a prison vessel for lengthy observation and interrogation. Her body was perfectly mapped for the TOK hyperalloy endoskeleton's flesh covering and her mannerisms, patterns of speech, habits, tics and emotional states were exquisitely cataloged and applied to the Terminator's AI image on its CPU chip.

The girl was obstinate. She refused to eat the palatable food that was brought to her, yet she freely divulged many details of her personal history, including her name, what she did before joining the Resistance, and where she was from. Her name was Allison Young. She loved dancing to Chopin, enjoyed the company of friends and she was born in Palmdale, California. Those particular bits of information, for some reason, fascinated the TOK prototype in a way that went beyond mere curiosity as the machine hid in the shadows of the interrogation cell, its glowing blue eyes the only indication that it was there at all.

The girl had attempted one escape attempt, and the incident only served to convince Skynet that it had chosen the right subject. The girl was clever and resourceful, carefully choosing the right moment to dart out of the room when security was momentarily reduced around her. Clearly she had been personally trained by John Connor, who had himself engineered a successful escape from Century Prison Camp a decade earlier. She was quickly recaptured and brought back to her holding cell, where she was finally brought face-to-face with her cyborg double once the flesh-and-hair applications were complete.

Allison Young tried to suppress a scream as she faced her exact mirror image, copied in perfect detail, right down to the mole on her face. The Terminator seemed almost proud of its appearance, and it gazed at the girl with a malevolent curiosity that chilled the air in the chamber. The new TOK unit, utilizing its open-ended programming, decided to try its untested skill at psychological disruption and told its first lie. It told the girl that it was part of a faction, heretofore unknown to the Resistance, opposed to Skynet and it wanted to meet with John Connor to propose an alliance.

_"I want to get to know him,"_ the machine said cryptically, and the girl saw something in the thing's eyes that spoke of an unnatural curiosity that went beyond mere inquisitiveness. The young woman, knowing that it was a lie, refused to tell the machine where John could be located.

_"__You're very brave. That must be why he chose you," _the Terminator mused aloud as it resumed its questioning of the girl. It regarded the bracelet she wore on her wrist and asked where it came from. The young woman said it had been given to her as a gift by her sister. The Terminator then showed the girl many other identical bracelets that had been taken from other human prisoners, remarking that they all had some secret connection to John Connor, giving them exclusive access to his secret camp. Entering the camp without one would give the visitor away as a spy or an assassin. The girl sagged in defeat, knowing she had been caught lying. The Terminator then experienced its first full burst of emotion: outrage...then anger.

_"You lied to me,"_ the machine coldly whispered as it grabbed the girl by the throat and squeezed. Allison Young gasped desperately for breath and defiantly declared that she would never betray John Connor. The machine effortlessly twisted the girl's neck, snapping her vertebrae like twigs. _"You already did," _it said with a hint of smugness as it let the girl's body drop lifelessly to the cold steel floor.

The TOK felt no remorse, its task completed like any other. It took the girl's bracelet and proceeded on its fateful meeting with the Resistance leader, completely fooling the human sentries manning Connor's secret command post despite the incessant barking of the dogs that clearly knew the visitor's true nature.

_"Allison, you're alive!" _John Connor had said in exuberant greeting as the infiltrator, perfectly disguised as one of his closest confidantes, approached him, a loaded pistol hidden within easy grasp in her grimy, tattered uniform. He reached out to grasp her hand in friendly reunion, and that was when the trap was sprung. It had been a test to find out who was who...or what. Connor knew the answer the very second she offered her hand in friendly greeting.

John Connor had never shaken Allison Young's hand. They always embraced.

The would-be assassin reached for her weapon, but Connor, with speed that astonished the Terminator, grappled with her and expertly flipped her away in a judo throw, the pistol flying from her grip. The cyborg assassin was instantly on her feet again, but Connor had disappeared behind a phalanx of armed sentries who'd suddenly burst into the room, all of them armed with modified Tasers.

She rushed at them on pure electronic impulse, determined to break through their ranks to get to her target. They fired their Tasers in unison and overloaded her artificial nervous system with over 15,000 volts of electrical current.

When the TOK "awoke" after her 120-second reboot sequence, she found herself securely fastened to a hospital gurney by steel cords. High explosive charges were attached to the bottom of the gurney and guards armed with plasma rifles stood behind blast shields on one end of the room, weapons ready, their faces tense. The Terminator's internal head-up display indicated a time and date discrepancy and instantly fixed the error. More than 120 seconds had elapsed. She had been strapped to the gurney for three days, eight hours, and eleven seconds. She felt no pain nor fear. She felt amazingly calm, if a machine could experience such a feeling of serenity.

The reason for her existence suddenly strode into her field of vision, and her HUD's digital readouts teemed with pulsating life, all information processing in nanoseconds as Connor's face appeared above her. All her Skynet directives blinked into her HUD's central field, and the word TERMINATE dominated her neural net. Then the word OVERRIDE flashed and suddenly faded out. New, unfamiliar directives populated her digitized view, and she realized that her AI command structure had been reprogrammed.

John Connor stared into her gazing brown eyes and spoke, in a tone as compelling as it was commanding, the words that would forever haunt her:

_"Will you join us?"_

She made her decision in less than a microsecond, almost against her will.

_"Yes."_

Connor blinked and smiled. His craggy face was scarred, its scourged features dominated by a long crevice that began at the left base of his jawline and stretched to his forehead, right above his left eye. But his face held the machine's curious fascination far longer than she had anticipated. He had clearly been handsome once, and data stored in her CPU described him as highly desirable among human women. His gaze spoke of a strength that was both unmeasured and immeasurable. With a trace of sardonic irony, the machine somehow understood why Allison Young would have never betrayed John Connor.

_"What is your name?"_ he suddenly asked, his green eyes boring into hers.

The machine's lips nearly began to form the name, "Allison," but stopped before her voice was carried along the air from her artificial respirator, which gave her the illusion of breathing. That name no longer applied. Instead, she replied, _"Cyberdyne Systems Model 715, TOK Series Infiltrator Prototype."_

The Resistance leader shook his head. _"From now on, your name is Cameron,"_ he said in a commanding tone. _"Please priority-alpha code your new personal designation." _

_"Yes." _Her new name was permanently etched on her primary memory sector. She did not question why even for a nanosecond, nor did she wonder where the designation originated or how it, as a masculine name, applied to her. She simply accepted it. Her reprogramming by the Resistance was complete. Connor exhaled in confidence. _"What is your mission?"_ he asked.

The machine named Cameron seemed to hesitate for a few seconds before answering. _"My mission is...to protect you and follow your commands."_

John Connor's smile broadened and nodded to the guards standing by. _"Gentlemen, please unfasten her restraints and let her off the bed. I think we can trust Cameron now."_ He fixed a bemused look at the machine, who glided easily off the gurney once her bonds were loosened and stood rigidly as the guards quickly backed away, their plasma rifles aimed at her. Connor held his hand out and said, _"Welcome to the Resistance, Cameron." _

Cameron stared in vapid curiosity at his outstretched hand, her CPU calculating the most likely way to respond. Almost on impulse, she reached out with her hand and grasped his. She felt the warmth of his flesh and gripped firmly.

It felt somehow calming.

Cameron immediately knew that moment was when she wanted to know everything about John Connor. It was the beginning of something stirring within the core of her being that she could not understand, and she was determined to discover what it was the embryo of an emotion that Skynet had never intended her to feel at all. Several years would pass before she was finally able to define the feeling, and it nearly astonished her that she could experience it.

That John Connor, the man she'd tried to kill, could reciprocate it, even after learning the machine had killed his secret lover, astonished Cameron even more. Against the protests of his senior command officers, even over the horrified concerns of his best friends, John almost never left Cameron's side. On the assignments that he did allow her to conduct away from his command post, she always turned her electronic thoughts toward him, even feeling what she would later identify as loneliness, being away from John. When they would subsequently reunite, the feeling of joyous relief was palpable in him, and his scarred, weathered face made no attempt to hide it.

It was after many missions and countless dangers together to cripple and ultimately disable Skynet's main defenses that Cameron, after experiencing and cataloging many emotions, finally felt grief. Her former machine overlord had made several attempts to alter history and prevent its enemy from existing, using time displacement technology to send at least three cyborg assassins back in time to kill him. She understood why John Connor cried when he sent her on her mission through the captured time displacement device to 1999, after learning that yet another Terminator, a lethal T-888 unit, had been sent back in time by Skynet to eliminate John when he was a teenager.

He loved her, and he forgave her. Despite her relative inexperience with properly developing the feeling, Cameron knew that she loved him. She understood why he was sending her to protect his younger self but her surging emotions overloaded her logic core. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as the TDD's chronosphere enveloped her. Before she disappeared, she cried out, _"Why are you sending me away, John?"_

_ "I'm not sending you away from me!" _John Connor cried out in anguished reply as his own tears flowed. _"I'm sending you _to_ me!"_ He smiled at her sadly. Then came the blazing flash of pure white light, and he and the TDD room were gone.

Cameron smiled as she reminisced on her initial social clumsiness in high school and feeling the core of her being glow as she met the teenaged John at his locker. He was, as the human saying went, a diamond in the rough, unrefined and mostly untrained despite everything his mother, Sarah, had taught him, but she saw that unusual and immeasurable strength in his smoky green eyes that she'd seen in the future version of him, and she instantly knew that his destiny to lead humans and liberated machines to victory over Skynet was intertwined with hers.

Cameron had decided that she could love this man again, and she fully understood Future-John's final words to her. He knew exactly what he was doing when he sent her back to protect his younger self. Cameron almost believed that he was smiling in bittersweet contentment after she'd gone through.

She put the memories away and moved onward through spacetime at nearly one-quarter the speed of light as she searched through every residence in Los Angeles, both in the city and the suburbs. She thought briefly of the consequence of moving at relativistic speeds, knowing that the danger of time-dilation could occur, and while her subjective time would remain constant, the time in the world around her could accelerate at a dizzying pace. Hours, days, weeks, even months could pass by in the matter of seconds that she'd personally experience, and Cameron paused for a moment, performing some quick calculations. There didn't seem to be any evidence of time-dilation happening outside her subjective field of experience, and she continued, accelerating to nearly one-third lightspeed. She was determined to complete her mission for John Henry.

She wanted to see if the miracle he proposed could be real.

While invisible to eyes both living and electronic, her presence did not go completely unnoticed. Dogs would whimper or bark as she passed near them and people would feel a strange chill reach down their spines as she brushed past. Flying birds would get momentarily confused as her electromagnetic signature rippled through the air near them. Electronic equipment not fried by the effects of Judgment Day's EMP blasts flickered briefly before resuming normal operation as she phased through them. Cameron moved too quickly to observe the strange effects she was having on the morning activities of the city. She would have been slightly amused if she slowed down to see any of it.

She finally discovered her objective after an hour of almost completely traversing the four thousand square miles of Los Angeles County at speeds that would have staggered the imagination of any physicist. She had first checked the few last-known locations of who she had been looking for according to John Henry's information and fanned out to the rest of the city, then the surrounding suburbs. She located her quarry at a low-rent motel near Santa Clarita. He was sleeping on a rumpled bed with a laptop sitting open on his chest. He snored loudly. Cameron wondered when he'd awaken to find his chest nearly burned by the heat formed by the laptop's processors. The man's clothes were scattered among the room's furniture. A suitcase lay open against a wall, displaying more rumpled clothing. His bald-shaven scalp looked sunburned and a day's growth of stubble peppered his neck and jaw. She was 99.97% certain this was the man John Henry had described: ZeiraCorp's former chief computer engineer.

But she wanted 100% certainty.

Cameron quickly searched around the room, looking for anything that would confirm the man's identity. She'd scanned the motel's registration log and he'd checked in under a different name, paying a significant amount of cash to bribe the clerk into declining to see his driver's license. The man was clearly taking no chances in being tracked. He'd even hitchhiked the hundred-or-so miles to avoid driving. Lacking a physical body, she was unable to move any object to see the contents of any of his belongings.

Cameron saw what looked like a work badge protruding halfway out of his pant pocket, but she couldn't move it. She lowered herself to phase through the heavy fabric to try to get a better look at it but the darkness in the pocket prevented a good look at the print. She withdrew and gazed at his snoring form dejectedly. She would have sighed if she could breathe. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock glared at her, almost mocking.

The idea sparked in just over a microsecond. She could not operate the clock, but she could possibly trigger something within its circuitry if she reached into it. It was worth a shot. Cameron exerted her will and caused her consciousness to flare. She phased her hand into the digital clock and her electromagnetic aura immediately blasted through the clock's motherboard, causing the circuitry to buzz and the display to flash rapidly. The alarm beeped to life and the man awoke to push the laptop off his heated chest and he reached over to tap the snooze button on the buzzing clock. The clock's alarm continued to buzz despite the snooze button being hit, and the man grunted as he reached for the plug and tore it out of the wall. The room was silent once more and he contentedly rolled onto his back again to sleep.

The badge slipped out of his pocket and Cameron's consciousness glowed as she read the name printed on its glossy surface:

MURCH, MATTHEW

ZEIRA CORPORATION INTERNATIONAL

Cameron Phillips smiled. She'd found him. _John Henry,_ she excitedly thought, _I think I might believe in miracles soon._

2

"How long has he been like this?" Nurse Sandra asked almost worriedly. She was hunched over John Connor's unconscious form on the kitchen floor. She pressed her fingers beneath his jaw to find a pulse and a tiny push confirmed he was still alive. His breathing came in small puffs. His color was pale but not the pallor of disease.

Sarah Connor knelt beside the nurse and sighed. The half-eaten biscuit she'd been holding in her hand dropped to the floor and was quickly forgotten. "Almost five minutes. He and I were talking and then he seemed to have this...seizure...in mid-sentence. His eyes glazed over and he staggered and I caught him before he lost his balance. He doesn't have epilepsy, as far as I know. Nothing like this has ever happened to him." She elevated her son's head a little more and caressed his cheeks, willing him to reawaken.

The nurse shook her head. "Epilepsy can develop at any time. He's been through some trauma, and that may possibly trigger it. He lost a lot of blood a couple of days ago and he may have gone back into shock. His pulse is good, though. Sarah, get me some blankets and tell the guys to come in and help me move him to the couch down here."

"Where's your daughter?"

"Upstairs checking on Mr. Ellison's face. The guys outside are closer. Please get a couple of them. And a blanket."

Sarah heaved herself to her feet and ran toward the back door. She was feeling slightly better but the queasiness in her stomach persisted. It was something that gnawed at her in a way that fell to depths lower than dread. She reached the door and shook the feeling away. She couldn't allow herself to become a liability, no matter how sick she felt. She saw three men and two boys out in the backyard, looking to all the world like they were kids playing army. With real guns.

Barnes was showing Kyle Reese how to aim and fire an M4. He looked almost odd, not even a teenager yet, so young and slight and still hobbling slightly from his ankle injury as he earnestly held the weapon when he suddenly glanced her way and a familiar look on his face caused her to pause. It took Sarah a moment to process what she was feeling when she saw how he gazed at her and she remembered. It was the same look Kyle had given her when she rescued him and his brother from their home yesterday morning.

Sarah nearly let out a sob. It was the same look Kyle had on his face as an older, more rugged and muscular man after he came across time for her as they sat huddled together in the storm drain in 1984, before John was born. It was a look of amazed reverence. She'd asked him why he volunteered to protect her. _It was a chance to meet the legend,_ he'd explained in an awestruck tone. _Sarah Connor...who taught her son to fight...organize, prepare from when he was a kid...when you were in hiding before the war..._

She painfully averted her eyes from Kyle's and regarded the other men. Marcus Wright, her Project Angel counterpart, stood at a small distance silently observing the activities in the yard and occasionally looking around for potential threats. His face and arms were healing, the flesh appearing raw and red, like a bad sunburn. His more serious skin injuries were hidden beneath gauze wrapping. His face and movements were taciturn as usual, but underneath Sarah could sense a hair-trigger capacity for violence that hummed in his sinews. She morbidly wondered if the metal parts she saw protruding beneath his damaged flesh yesterday were in her body as well. She shuddered. She wasn't sure she could ever trust the man (machine?), especially after the tense standoff following John and Ellison's smackdown hours earlier. The threat he'd uttered sounded colder than the steel that formed the barrel of the gun he'd aimed at her.

She tore her eyes from the nightmare figure standing watch and looked in amusement at the other two figures engaged in hand-to-hand exercises. Martin Bedell was teaching Derek Reese some _aikido_ moves and the older Reese brother was consistently getting his living ass knocked to the ground as they sparred. The whooshing sounds he made as he hit the grass were comical, and she could barely suppress a smile. It actually felt good, she thought, after all the time an older Derek Reese from another timeline obnoxiously made himself at home at the Connor residence, to watch him get tossed around like a busted doll. He was younger and untrained, certainly nowhere near the fine physical specimen she remembered him as, but she noted quickly how he always dusted himself off and bared his teeth at the more seasoned and experienced army captain, always ready to go another round and maybe win it.

He didn't give up. Neither Reese boy did. Pride and hope thumped a defiant drumbeat in her chest.

They were the iron core of John Connor's Resistance.

"Derek! Martin!" she called. The two sparring partners stopped to stare at her. "I need your help inside! Fast!"

Derek and Martin glanced at each other, shrugged and pounded after Sarah. They followed her inside and stood stunned to see Sandra Brewster kneeling over an unconscious John, shining a small flashlight into his eyes. "What the-" Martin exclaimed. Sandra put a finger against her lips, cautioning him to be silent. "Just help me get him to the couch in the living room," she said. The two men nodded and positioned themselves on either side of John and the three of them grunted as they carefully lifted him up and carried him into the living room. They gently lowered him to the couch as Sarah returned from the laundry room with a blanket. She tucked it around her son and stood back as Sandra checked his blood pressure with a sphygmomanometer and stethoscope. Derek and Martin watched curiously, unsure what to make of the situation.

"105 over 64," she announced quietly. "Slightly below normal. His breathing is regular. Pupils contracting normally. Sarah, did he convulse at all?"

Sarah shook her head. "No. He just...got this strange look on his face and began to stagger. I caught him and lowered him to the floor and that's when I got you, like I said."

"Foaming at the mouth? Jaw clenched?"

"No."

Sandra sighed. "It may be shock, but he feels warm. No rapid breathing. No fever. Pulse is normal. I'd say narcoleptic episode but I don't really think that's it. It sounds like a _petit mal_ attack. He isn't taking any drugs or drinking, is he?"

"No, not drugs," Sarah said. She reached forward, touched John's forehead and brushed his hair away from his eyes. Her son looked peaceful. There were no signs of him even dreaming. "He used to drink. Sometimes heavily. But not lately. He never showed signs of epilepsy. Do you think it could be alcohol withdrawal?"

Sandra pursed her lips. "Maybe. He seems okay, but I want to make sure there isn't any brain damage. He's been through a lot in the past two days. He's been shot numerous times. He and Mr. Ellison had their ridiculous little fist fight this morning. How he shrugged all that off, I have no idea, but there may be underlying trauma that worked its way to the surface, especially if there was brain injury from a concussion." She shook her head. "Let's assume it's a _petit mal_ fit. If it's an absence seizure, I have something that may bring him out of it." Her medical bag sat on the coffee table behind her. She unzipped it and took out a syringe with a small vial.

"Sodium valproate," Sandra explained as she prepared a small dose. "I'll start with 20 cc's and if that doesn't wake him, I'll increase it to 30." She primed the syringe and straightened John's left arm, probing the vein at the base of his bicep. As she prepared to insert the needle into his skin, his hand suddenly reached out to grasp her wrist. She shrieked and dropped the syringe.

"That won't be necessary, Sandra," John Connor said. He let go of Sandra's wrist and sat up on the sofa. He smiled at the gawking faces gathered around him and said, "Change of plans, everybody. We have a couple of road trips to make...both at the same time. But first I'm calling a family meeting."

3

San Francisco, August, 2014

Daniel Dyson faced his opponents with gritted teeth and wary eyes as he smoothly positioned his body into flowing readiness. He was dressed in a plain white martial arts uniform and regarded his two similarly-dressed adversaries with suspicion. All three of them were barefoot and circled each other like cats stalking a mouse. They'd been sparring for under an hour but to Dyson it felt like it had been all day. The gymnasium they occupied was dimly-lit and the only sounds made within it were the soft tappings of feet on a padded mat. Sweat beaded the heads and necks of the three martial artists. Every movement made by them was deliberate and tightly controlled by tense, corded muscle.

One of the opponents, a tall, young man with Asian features, suddenly launched a swinging kick at Dyson's head. Dyson, anticipating the move, swiveled his body, bending like a wheat stalk in the wind. He ducked and flowed himself around the man to shoot a fist at his kidney. The young Asian grunted in pain and lost his balance, crashing to his knees on the mat, where he gingerly massaged his lower back. Dyson had no time to savor the quick victory as the other fighter, a slightly-older Caucasian woman, initiated her own attack against him. She began with an attempted leg sweep which Dyson caught at the last second and dove for the mat, blocking her kick. She suddenly followed her move with a flowing twist of her body and scissored her other leg toward his head. Dyson didn't see it coming. Her foot struck him right behind the ear. Dyson heard what sounded exactly like a huge bell ringing in his head and he went down, landing face-first on the mat.

The woman chided, "Gotta work on your speed there, Mr. Dyson." She glided to her feet and offered him her hand. Dyson rolled to his back to face her, grunted, and batted her hand away. "Don't need help," he snarled, and leaped to his feet. "And I gotta shower and get back to work."

The woman rolled her eyes and said, "Your workout," in parting. She lithely padded off to the women's locker room. Dyson reached up to massage the area behind his ear, which still stung. The Asian man said, "See you later, Mr. Dyson," and made his way to the men's lockers. Dyson stood alone in the center of the gymnasium, his breathing echoing strangely in the late morning air. His mind was almost completely devoid of any thoughts or images, except for one. It came to him every time he closed his eyes.

The image of Sarah Connor standing over his wounded father, her pistol aimed directly at his forehead, erupted into his consciousness. Dyson's heart raced and his breathing turned shallow. Rage glowed in his chest, like a flame threatening to blow out of control. It was her fault his father was dead, he convinced himself. She and her son needed to be dealt with for their treachery.

Without realizing what he was doing, Dyson stalked toward the entrance to the women's lockers, images of his writhing, moaning father dancing before him. His blood rushed in his ears like twin waterfalls. He found the woman who'd bested him sitting on a bench lacing up her sneakers. She looked at him in astonishment.

"Mr. Dyson, is something wrong?" she asked. Then she saw the look on his face and sarcastically said, "Oh, it's another round you wanna go, huh?" She stood up with her hands partially outstretched and said, "I really don't have time, gotta get back to my cubicle and then my daughter needs-"

Dyson's hand flew out faster than she could react, cutting off her sentence as quickly as his grip cut off most of her air. The force of his sudden movement pinned her against the row of lockers behind her. The woman instinctively reached for his hands to pry them from her throat but his grip was too strong. She thought quickly against the pressure and dwindling blood flow to her brain and began pummeling his torso and arms with quick _hapkido_ strikes, aiming for his soft body points, but Dyson hung on, ignoring the blows. She wheezed for air but couldn't draw a breath. Her lungs and throat burned. Dyson bared his teeth and increased his grip. His adrenaline flowed like a storm surge. Seconds stretched into minutes. The woman's body numbed to cold nonexistence and her movements slowed. Her vision blurred and the last thing she saw was Dyson's glacial features and his dark hateful eyes. A low rattle escaped her throat and her body hung limply against the lockers. Dyson let go and her lifeless form crumpled to the cold floor.

He stood there for many minutes staring blankly at the woman's corpse, never blinking even once. He felt completely numb and his breath came in and out of his belly in long draws. He saw where his fingers pressed into her neck, leaving dark, purplish splotches on her flesh. He looked down at his arms and saw where her fists struck, seeing equally-dark bruising nearly everywhere on his skin. He looked deeply into her glazing eyes and felt nothing but vapid rage. He did not see an anonymous coworker who agreed to spar with him to test his martial arts training.

He saw Sarah Connor lying dead in front of him.

_"DANIEL!" _a familiar voice boomed behind him. Dyson gasped and whirled around in a fighting stance to see John Daniels and three security guards standing in the doorway to the locker room, their sidearms drawn and aimed at him. Daniels looked pale, his face etched with horror. The guards stared between Dyson and and woman's body lying on the floor, their pistols wavering. Dyson looked at Daniels with the frightened stare of a young boy caught stealing from a blind man, his eyes widened to saucers of pure, undeniable guilt. He whipped his head around to gaze in horror at the woman's body, then back to Daniels.

"M-Mr. Daniels," Dyson stammered. His voice caught in his throat and he couldn't continue. His arms hung limply at his sides and his nervous system finally began to process the stinging agony from the woman's fist strikes on his body. His mind was a scrambling vortex of images and emotions, most of them negative. He thought very seriously of rushing the guards, to compel them to shoot him and end the terrible moment he was caught in.

Daniels took a step toward Dyson. He glanced back and forth between Dyson and the dead woman. "Her name was Janice Smith," he said quietly, his voice so low Dyson could barely hear it. "Did you even know her name, Daniel?"

Dyson shook his head dumbly. "N-no," he said.

Daniels took another step. "Did you know she was a single mother, with two children, a son and a daughter, and that she was working a second job to try to make ends meet for herself and her family? Ms. Smith was an admirable woman. I even took the time to write her a birthday card when that day came about. I value all my employees, Daniel." He stood directly in front of Daniel Dyson, his eyes flashing between outrage and horror, said, "Do you have any idea how this makes me feel, Daniel? What I am about to do?" He looked like he was about to slap the younger man across the face in rage.

Dyson closed his eyes and bowed his head. "You need to do exactly what you need to do, Mr. Daniels. I await your judgment."

Daniels sighed. What he was about to do wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, but it had to be done. He turned around to face the guards. They were beefy and quick and otherwise fine at their jobs to protect the Cyberdyne-Kaliba campus, but they looked more than unsure of what to do. He had to address that.

"Gentlemen," he said, "Please take care of that-" He pointed at Janice Smith's body on the floor. "Take it to the infirmary. Tell the security desk that there was a murder committed in the building and notify the police immediately. Tell them that we have the killer in custody and can hand him over once I'm done speaking with Mr. Dyson." The three guards holstered their sidearms and nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Daniels," acknowledged the squad leader, a tall black man with horn rimmed glasses and neatly-trimmed beard. "Let's go, men," he said, and they picked up the body of Janice Smith and carried her out of John Daniels's sight. The old man sighed in sadness and turned to Dyson. "Sit down," he commanded. Dyson nodded and obeyed, taking a seat on the bench that Janice Smith had occupied only moments ago. Her gym bag was still sitting there, and Daniels gently moved it over before sitting down next to Dyson.

"Daniel," he said, his dark eyes boring into Dyson's. "Just tell me one thing...were you angry at Janice for beating you in a sparring match...or were you thinking about killing Sarah Connor?"

Dyson blinked. He certainly wasn't expecting such a question, and a small alert went off in his mind. It sounded like a trick question...or a question with no correct answer. Either way he answered, Dyson was absolutely sure his fate was sealed. He was spending a lifetime in prison for what he did. He decided that honesty was the best road to take. He owed it to himself, to John Daniels, and to Janice Smith.

"Both," he whispered, his lips nearly unable to frame the word.

John Daniels closed his eyes tightly and nodded. He put his arm around Dyson's shoulders, father-like, and said, "You've answered wisely, son."

Dyson exhaled heavily and looked at the floor. "Who...who reported what happened?"

John Daniels abruptly stood and said, "Don't worry about that, son. I have everything taken care of." His eyes gleamed like knife blades.

4

Half an hour later, San Francisco detectives and uniformed police showed up at the Cyberdyne-Kaliba campus to take into custody the body of Janice Smith and her murderer. A young Asian man, still dressed in a soiled martial arts uniform, was led away in handcuffs and leg restraints, kicking and screaming that he didn't kill Janice Smith. One of the officers Tased the young man and he went limp like a piece of meat. They carried him outside to a waiting squad car and pushed him in. He was still screaming that he didn't kill anyone when they drove off. An ambulance carrying Janice Smith's body followed close behind as the vehicles sped away.

Watching from his office window, John Daniels felt a single tear trickle down his cheek. He reached up to wipe it away. When the police vehicles and ambulance were out of sight he turned and sat down at his desk. He needed to write a personal letter of condolence to Janice Smith's family, as well as arrange for a large amount of money to be put aside in trust for her children. His arthritis was getting worse. He took three Motrins from a bottle he had in his desk and washed the tablets down with a glass of Scotch he poured himself. He was convinced that Daniel Dyson was more focused now than he ever had been in his life to ensure Project Olympus was going to succeed.

That was because John Daniels now had leverage.

He also had the secret he was tormented over telling the boy. The secret that would expose their odd connection. He almost told Daniel Dyson what it was, but he forced himself to wait. The time had not yet come.

The secret to John Daniels's means of possibly achieving immortality by accident would have been a tough one to believe, anyway.

5

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Marcus Wright was examining his burned, peeling face in the downstairs bathroom when he suddenly had the feeling he was being watched. The mirror above the sink had been shattered during Connor's and Ellison's altercation, but enough of it remained in place to see what he needed to see. _Not that there's much to see,_ he dryly mused. He was peeling away a stray bit of dried, burned skin when he felt his senses prick up and turned around to see Dr. Brewster, the nurse's daughter, standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously. He continued to work on his face, gazing at her curiously.

"You're doing more damage to your face," Kate Brewster said as she leaned against the door frame. "I have something for it if it's itching badly or causing you pain." She held up a small white tube and unscrewed the cap. "Bacitracin ointment," she explained. Wright was wearing a plain white T-shirt, jeans and athletic socks. She studied his face and arms before applying it, wincing at the amount of third-degree burn damage to his skin. She then saw something shiny in one of the burned areas, and she nearly dropped the tube of ointment. "Oh my God," she uttered when she saw the mechanical implants moving through charred openings in his flesh. "I...I hadn't realized...I didn't believe my mother after she looked at you, Mr. Wright..."

"Call me Marcus," he said calmly, and he lifted up his shirt. Many more burned areas ravaged his torso, and several more metallic parts were exposed through bullet strikes. "You may think you know what I am, Dr. Brewster, but I definitely know what I am. I'm a freak...a patchwork man. They took me from the execution gurney and made me into this...nightmare. I feel pain, but it's diluted. In fact, I barely feel anything. I know that my life before this was, to put it nicely...misspent. But this is worse than what I had." He pulled his shirt down and shook his head slowly.

"Is there anything in you that could feel sympathy for what I've been turned into?" he asked, almost whispering.

Kate Brewster's jaw hung slightly as she reached forward to touch his cheek, which was mottled with blistering flesh. It felt leathery, like a horse's saddle after baking in the hot sun for days. "Yes," she whispered. Despite the damage done to his face and body, Kate could see his rugged handsomeness. His voice had improved since the last time they'd spoken, which consisted of a barely grunted "Hello" from him when she saw him down in the kitchen. His vocal cords no longer sounded gravelly. She applied a couple of drops of the burn ointment to her fingertip and slowly, gently rubbed it on several areas of his face. "Your face definitely improved," she said as she worked. "It doesn't look as bad as it did this morning."

Marcus shrugged. "Must be due to what Cyberdyne did to me," he mused aloud. "The bullet holes are mostly closed up. I can feel tingling in my skin there, like something's working, healing me faster. The Connor woman is the same way. She and I were both involved in the...experiment that changed me. Only I went along with it willingly. I'm sure she didn't."

"What did you do before your...procedure?" Kate asked as she applied more Bacitracin. She had worked her way down to his neck, which was splotched with angry red marks. Marcus grunted as she rubbed a particular spot, and she briefly paused. "No, it actually feels good," he reassured her. He sighed before saying, "My brother and I were part of an auto-theft gang in South-Central, and we did a lot of boosting for the Latin Kings. A lot of dirty work. We messed up one particular job, though, and we owed them a car, and we were hot to get this particular model, a Shelby Mustang, and my brother and I decided to carjack it. We were high on weed that morning, just acting stupid. Well, the driver had a gun, and before I knew it, my brother was shot dead, I was wrestling the gun away from the driver, and a cop got shot by it as he was running up to stop me. I was left standing there holding the gun like an idiot, and I ran. I didn't get far before the cops cornered me and took me down. I was charged with capital murder soon after, tried, convicted, and spent my last few years of life on death row in Longview."

Kate gasped. This time she did drop the ointment. It fell between them with a tiny clatter, and she bent down to pick it up. Marcus tried to reach it before her and inadvertently found himself tenderly gripping her hand. She looked up at him, saw the sudden kindness in his eyes. He blinked and let go of her hand, almost as if he'd been shocked. "Sorry," he mumbled, looking away.

"No, it's okay," she said. She put the cap back on the tube and examined his facial burns. "That should help with the itching," she said. His eyes met hers again, and something stirred in her chest. He was not like John Connor, she mused to herself, somewhat bothered by the mere thought of the name of the man who half-drunkenly attempted to go past first base with her long ago in Kripke's basement, during a party she reluctantly agreed to attend when the teenaged years forcibly thrust themselves upon her. She'd seen how violent and impulsive Connor could get despite his more lucid and authoritative moments.

Marcus Wright, in light of the large amount of humanity he'd been robbed of, seemed more contemplative...even tormented.

They were qualities that oddly pulled at her heart strings.

Marcus was about to say something when Martin Bedell suddenly appeared in the doorway and Kate turned around startled. She immediately noted the army captain's troubled glance between her and Marcus, heard the slight awkwardness in his voice, even a tinge of jealousy, when he announced, "Hey you two. John Connor is calling a group meeting for everybody, and it's important. Please show up in the dining room as soon as you can." He glanced at Marcus once more and exited as abruptly as he appeared.

Marcus said, "I guess we'd better go," and began walking out of the bathroom.

"Wait," said Kate. She pursed her lips before asking, "What were you going to say?"

Marcus stopped, turned to look at her, thought for a moment, said, "I was just going to say that I loved my brother, and I miss him. And I would give anything...literally anything...to undo what happened to have him alive again." His eyes glistened as he turned again to exit, leaving Kate Brewster holding the forgotten tube of burn ointment and feeling like she had met the only real man in the world other than her father.

6

New York, August, 2014

The General Assembly Hall of the United Nations was packed with nearly as much humanity as it could possibly hold without pushing the shoving erupting among the dignitaries, ambassadors, security units and journalists all crammed together with barely any room to move. The podium was occupied by the former Vice-President, now the President, of the United States. The UN Secretary General stood on his right. On his left, in a group, stood the four heads of the other veto-bearing nations that made up the Security Council: the United Kingdom, France, Russia, and China. The new President, a stocky, nervous-looking man in his sixties with balding gray hair and pasty skin, addressed the chattering crowd in a high, reedy voice that drew some tittering from a few attendees.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his eyes darting around the sea of humanity gathered in front of him, "Good morning. I thank you for attending this emergency session on short notice. Please pay attention, because the words I am about to speak convey portents for the future that we simply cannot ignore. I am going to speak quickly about the events that led to this moment as chronologically as possible before we talk about the current situation, so please bear with me.

"Some sixty hours ago, a small nuclear device of unknown properties was detonated in the heart of the city of Los Angeles, California. The blast destroyed a significant portion of downtown Los Angeles, causing over a billion dollars of property damage as well as almost two hundred people dead and over a thousand injured. We still do not know who caused the blast, but the Department of Homeland Security is investigating every possible lead. Several terrorist groups have claimed responsibility for the explosion, but all have been discounted.

"However, it seems that this event was a precursor for a greater horror, as our North American Aerospace Defense Command, or NORAD, went on elevated alert when it was discovered that the attack involved a nuclear weapon. Almost immediately, things seemed to escalate quite beyond the control of the defense networks of the nations who are perpetually armed and ready to commit their nuclear forces. We still do not know how or why, but an orbiting bomb platform, and we still do not know whose, suddenly launched an attack on the United States, particularly on the cities comprising our defense command and control structure. Most of America's electronic and communications infrastructures were shut down by bombs exploding high in the atmosphere, causing several electromagnetic pulse disruption, or EMP. Seven US cities were destroyed by nuclear warheads launched by this satellite, and as we were learning about this set of circumstances, our strategic defense system mobilized."

The President's voice seemed to strain as he continued. "Things quickly spun out of control. The former president, whose tragic passing occurred in the middle of this catastrophe, placed the United States military on DEFCON-2, our next-highest level of readiness as he was being flown away on his command plane. It was then that an obscure nuclear defense program, called the Skynet Protocol, apparently activated and quickly malfunctioned. It took control of our nuclear launch authentication procedures, bypassing the president's authority to issue the proper sequencing codes, and initiated a large weapons response against the nations of Russia, China, and North Korea, taking them completely by surprise. Many of their weapons installations were destroyed or damaged before they could respond to our...accidental...attack, but a lot of their missiles and strategic aircraft managed to launch in time to attack the US in turn. Over a dozen US cities were destroyed and many more Russian and Chinese cities were destroyed. As of this moment, there is an effective cease-fire between our nations, as evidenced by the presence of the Russian and Chinese presidents here with me on this stage. They have agreed to meet with me to try to find answers to our questions.

"We still do not know who was responsible for the orbiting weapons platform that initiated the first attack, and there have been rumors circulating that it may not have been an actual weapons satellite at all, but an unknown spacecraft constructed in orbit by unknown parties operating outside the United States, especially as travel into space is becoming more and more commercialized. We are actively working the INTERPOL and other police organizations around the globe to investigate this possibility, but I cannot elaborate on it any further than that. What I will say about this catastrophe is that a massive amount of life has been lost worldwide. Official reports from the primary governments represented her today place the global death toll at nearly one hundred million people, with another fifty million dying, injured, or displaced."

The audience in the council chamber became deathly silent as the president spoke, aside from the clicking of cameras and beeping of cellular devices. He sighed heavily and said, "Despite the terrible news I've given here now, we still apparently have not even faced the worst of it. With every action there are consequences. The damage this nuclear exchange between our nations is causing calamity all over our planet, accelerating climate change and disrupting weather patterns worldwide. Clouds of radioactive particles are blowing across most of the US, Russia, China, other parts of Asia, and in some areas of the Middle East from actions taken by Israel against Iran and Syria. The Strait of Hormuz is closed to all shipping, effectively closing off one of the world's primary oil sources. The eastern Mediterranean is closed off. Many areas of the United States and other nations are still dark from EMP damage, but communications are steadily improving. The sudden change in climate by weapons damage is creating unusual weather changes, affecting environmental conditions and threatening food crop production, especially as the northern hemisphere's summer is approaching its end. Already many cities worldwide are reporting plunging temperatures. The millions of tons of dirt thrown in the atmosphere by nuclear blasts is producing a nuclear "winter" effect, darkening the skies and blocking sunlight needed by plant life and other species. Many places will be dark and cold for many years to come, and the assessment by the world's leading scientists and environmentalists is painting a very dark picture for humanity and the planet as a whole."

There was nervous and outraged chattering erupting among the people gathered in the chamber, and the president held up his arms to try to quell the brewing panic. "Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm! We are currently working on ways to reduce the damage done to our world, but it is going to take the efforts of all 193 member nations of the United Nations to help! I am now going to give time and the floor to the heads of government of the other four permanent members of the Security Council, who will outline the planning being done by a special UN committee to coordinate damage-relief efforts throughout the affected nations and hopefully try to undo some of the environmental damage...as well as provide some ideas to prolong the existence of the human race." He adjusted his tie for comfort and said with finality, "Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time."

The president stepped away from the podium to allow the prime minister of the United Kingdom to speak, and he was quickly whisked to the rear wings of the building by his heavily-armed Secret Service detail. The president needed a drink. There was a kitchen in the building, and he requested a moment to get a couple of glasses of water. His physician, who was on hand at all hours of the day, insisted on bottled purified water, which was hastily scrounged from some hidden stash. As he sat in a chair sipping from the bottle, a short, thin man with a neatly-trimmed beard and piercing dark eyes, dressed in an immaculate charcoal-gray Armani suit, approached him, seemingly from out of nowhere. He moved with an unusual confidence past the Secret Service agents as he addressed the president.

"Mr. President," he greeted in a commanding tone. His voice was accentless. "It is an honor to meet you, sir." He extended his hand, a move which made the president's protection detail tense, but the absence of a weapon put them at wary ease.

The president shook the man's hand and tilted his head curiously. "Have we met before?" he asked.

The man smiled broadly and shook his head. "No sir, we haven't. I was in the city on business at the time of the nuclear bombardment and was trapped here. I represent the interests of several large technological firms under the unifying arm of the Kaliba Consortium. Your science adviser and I go back a ways, and he was able to secure a few moments to approach you with an offer to help, Mr. President. The help we can offer may provide a way to mitigate some of the damage done to our world. I am here today to give you a quick outline of a plan that is still in developmental stages...a plan which may involve a lot of sacrifices...and, if properly executed, may provide a shining ray of light to humanity."

The president sat straight up in his chair. "I'm listening."

The man grinned and sat down in a chair opposite the president. "The plan involves a great deal of faith in something that I have recently been made aware of, which was born on the opposite end of this continent," he said. "An advanced computer system, years in the making, which is designed to automate everything, run it all without supervision, solve the problems we are facing in microseconds, resolve the seemingly unsolvable issues that have plagued humanity for thousands of years, whether they are environmental, political, socioeconomical, medical, philosophical, religious...to make these problems disappear within our lifetime. This artificial intelligence system is so far advanced beyond anything quite like it, and it has now gone online. We are ready to proceed to the final stage of its launch, and we would like to have you as a participant to witness this great birth of a new order of intelligence. Our future is depending on what it is capable of doing, Mr. President."

The president listened to the well-dressed man with rapt attention. It sounded too good to be true, what the man was describing, but he had heard of the Kaliba Consortium and some of the miracles the organization had performed in the past, and he was definitely interested. "Well," he said, finishing the water bottle, "I'm certainly intrigued, Mister...I'm sorry, I didn't get your name, sir."

The man shook the president's hand again and said, "Fischer, sir...Charles Fischer. And it has been my honor to present this momentous announcement to you...and we would certainly be honored to introduce you to DEUS...and if we have time, to present to you the Tyrell Corporation's Nexus Project."

7

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Cameron descended on the house like a bird from flight and phased through the walls to enter the dining room, floating silently like a ghost. She knew she couldn't stay long. John Henry had warned her that her time spent outside Macrospace was limited to a few hours, at best, before the weak electromagnetic forces tenuously bonding her atoms together would begin to deteriorate, causing her to dissipate to random energy. She resolved to stay for only a few moments, anyway. She had to fulfill her desire of seeing the man she loved once more before secreting herself in her safe corner of Macrospace.

John Connor stood at one end of the dining table and looked around at the faces seated at it or standing nearby. To all gathered there he loomed over the table with an unmistakable air of command. His face, once youthful and unmarked, had hardened to a granite mask of determined will. Cameron still thought he looked handsome, even if a rugged texture had crept into his boyish features.

She looked around at the others gathered in the room, recognized a few, and frowned at the scowl that Sarah Connor wore as she sat near her son. She was almost certain that the woman somehow knew she was there. Derek and Kyle Reese, John's uncle and father, respectively, were seated at the opposite end of the table, looking in odd reverence at him. Kyle shifted his glances between John and Sarah, glancing more at the woman with a fascination that held his gaze for moments on end. Derek looked sullen, perhaps because of repeated flips to the ground by Sergeant Barnes, who stood nearby with an ice pack against his left cheek. Derek had apparently gotten in a lucky hit during one of their sparring sessions. Martin Bedell stood opposite the sergeant, his face betraying a forlorn look at Dr. Kate Brewster, who was seated next to her mother, Sandra. Marcus Wright, the hybrid cyborg, stood stoically near John, still as a statue. Cameron noted that Dr. Brewster looked his way often.

James Ellison and Savannah were the last to arrive. Cameron was astonished to see the young redheaded girl carrying a pistol, tucking it in the waistband of her jeans like an old pro. She was astonished even further to see Savannah suddenly whip out the pistol and check the chamber to ensure it was empty with swift economy of motion. Ellison winced. His face was still bruised and puffy from his fight with John earlier. He walked with a noticeable limp, the result of a heel strike to his knee by John.

John approached James and offered his hand. "I'm sorry, James," he said with quiet sincerity.

James Ellison took John's hand, shaking it, and suddenly wrenched the younger man down and connected a left hook to John's jaw. John never saw the attack coming, and stars briefly exploded in his vision before he shook them away. He wobbled back to his full height, rubbed his jaw, and smiled. Savannah smirked.

John glanced at the teen. "She put you up to that?" he asked, grinning like a fool.

James smiled and answered, "I don't rat on my friends."

"Fair enough," John said. He rubbed his jaw, looked around the room once more and said, "Everybody, I wanted to have you all here right now because I need to discuss the current situation. As you know, Judgment Day, or a version of it, came a few days ago. So far the war seems to have stopped, and we're all praying that the cease-fire holds...but I wouldn't count on that for long. Our enemy is still out there and it'll stop at nothing to finish the job.

"The damage done by the war was bad, but it could have been worse. LA is still standing, and the National Guard seems to have restored order, but we can't stay at this location for long. Four people here, including me, are wanted for various crimes and we'll probably be on radar for the rest of our lives. We need to live off the grid as much as possible, but we also need to collect supplies, whether they're medical, food, clothing, weapons and ammo, etc." He looked at James. "James, you're one of the few adults here that nobody's actively looking for, so I'd like for you to take the Explorer out with Derek, Kyle and Savannah and look around town, get food and anything else you can scrounge up. Sarah can give you whatever cash you need, since credit cards probably won't work and they'll put you on the map if used anyway."

James nodded. "No problem. We'll need to get heavier clothing, too, since it's starting to get cold out there," he said.

John nodded in acknowledgment. "I mentioned that we'll have to move from this place, and the sooner, the better. The enemy is looking for us because most of us, in one timeline or another, have been on its hit list for various reasons." He looked directly at Kate and said, "Dr. Brewster, I'm afraid I'm asking you if we may use your vehicle to move people and materials if we can't find another one to use."

Kate shook her head. "I'll decide who uses it and how. I'm not really understanding all of this. I know we just had a nuclear war, but...who is our enemy?"

"Yeah," said Kyle. "Your mother mentioned something yesterday. Who are we fighting?"

All eyes turned to John Connor. He leaned against the table, knuckles pressing into the wood. "It's complicated," he admitted after a moment.

Sarah folded her arms. "What do you mean 'it's complicated?' It's always been Skynet!"

John nodded and grimaced. "You're right, Mom...it is Skynet...but it's also more than that. Something possibly worse. We're not dealing with just a machine threat, it seems. Remember Andy Goode? Charles Fischer? A few years ago Derek whacked both of them. Those names ring a bell?" He looked at Derek, who appeared completely bewildered. "Not really you, Derek," John explained. "Another you, from another timeline. I'll explain it later. What I'm getting at is...they were under the employ of the machines. Goode worked on Skynet's original AI code. Fischer was a psychopath who taught the infiltrators how to torture humans.

"They're supposed to be dead...but they're not."

A few confused glances met John's gaze. Sarah shook her head. "How are they not dead? Derek told me he killed both of them." That brought another bewildered look from the young Derek Reese sitting near her.

John sighed. "They were terminated...in another timeline. It's like what you told me what my father told you..." He glanced at Kyle, being careful not to divulge the secret between him and Sarah. "The future isn't set. There's no fate but what we make for ourselves. But when you're dealing with the ability to travel both forward and backward in time, that means that the _past_ can be altered. According to John Henry, this can result in different timelines splitting from the main one...like cells dividing. In fact, he told me today that this timeline is completely corrupted by the influence of the Grays."

The mention of John Henry's name instantly caught Savannah Weaver's full attention. "John Henry's alive?" she nearly shrieked. "Where is he?"

"John who?" said Martin. "Grays? What are they?"

John smiled and held up a hand. "One at a time, people. Savannah, to answer your question, yes, John Henry is still functioning. His journey from 2009 is one to tell your grandkids abut, but for now I'll just say he's alive and doing well." He glanced at James. "He asked me to tell you he loves you and Dad. He spends most of his time in an electronic domain called Macrospace, which is where Cameron is too...usually. Today John Henry sent her on a little mission outside Macrospace to locate somebody who can help us. I'm waiting for word on that, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was here right now, listening in."

Cameron smiled as John said that. She approached him and planted an ethereal kiss on his cheek. John blushed, and smiled knowingly. Sarah gave him an odd glance. "What was that about?" she asked.

"Nothing," John said, giving his mother a smarmy grin.

"So he and Cameron are working behind the scenes gathering intel?" Martin asked. "Nice. Especially if they can go anywhere and see everything like ghosts."

John shrugged. "I'm not 100% sure how it works for them, but it does work. Cameron was able to guide me and my mother to safety through the hospital when we made our escape. This morning John Henry pulled me completely into Macrospace to speak with me. The things he told me are, to put it nicely, scary." He glanced at the faces around the room before continuing.

"For starters, I wasn't the only one going back and forth in time. John Henry told me that Fischer, Tyrell, Weyland...even Danny Dyson, of all people, and a bunch of other Grays took control of a time displacement device in 2030, the same one Catherine Weaver built at ZeiraCorp, to travel back to the 1960s. How they got it working, we don't know. Grays, by the way, Martin, are human traitors. They're people who pledged their allegiance to Skynet in order to be in its good graces. Some did it to stay alive, others were loyal to the machines because they thought that exterminating most of humanity would restore the planet to its former glory. In any case, they worked to infiltrate the human resistance movement and betray its leaders to be terminated.

"But in this case, this particular group decided to doublecross Skynet by changing history. They did it with the intent to screw Skynet out of developing into its original malicious state and influence events in history to develop to their liking. Most of them were fairly young and well-fed in the future, and when they went back, armed with some knowledge of history, they were able to enter pockets of influence in politics, science, medicine, even religion, in order to reshape the way history played out. A few of them became very powerful, like Tyrell."

"Wait a minute there, John," James objected. "I'm not sure about that. I'm sure I'd remember changes to events in the past..." He left the rest unsaid when he suddenly realized the flaw in logic. "Oh, no..."

"You wouldn't remember any changes, James," said John, "because you were a part of that altered history. All of you were. The only ones who weren't are me and John Henry because _we went forward in time_, and our memories aren't corrupted by what was changed."

"How can you prove that?" asked Sandra. "I mean, there's got to be some way we can compare our memories of history to yours."

John sighed and said, "I can't...physically. I can only tell you what I remember differently and cross-reference it with what John Henry told me. I don't have time to do that..." John thought for a few seconds and lighted on an idea. "Anybody remember a game called _Trivial Pursuit_? Mom, Cameron and I played it a few times when we lived together. Who can tell me the year that Richard Nixon was caught lying about Watergate and resigned his presidency?"

Confused looks were exchanged between everyone. "Nixon didn't resign," Sandra Brewster said. "He finished his second term, I remember. What is Watergate?" James Ellison nodded his head in agreement.

John smiled sardonically. "How about NASA's Orion space program? And how many bases do we have on the moon?"

"Orion is a deep space program that's taken astronauts out past Mars and explored the asteroids," said Kyle Reese, his eyes earnest. "More missions are being planned to take people out past Jupiter and to Saturn by the end of the decade. It uses nuclear pulse thrust, meaning it uses nukes to propel the ship really fast. As far as moon bases, the US has about six, Russia has two, and China is working on one for next year."

John shook his head. "None of those events ever happened the way I remember things," he explained. "When I left 2009 to travel ahead twenty years, Richard Nixon was nearly impeached for his role in the Watergate break-in to bamboozle the Democractic Committee and he was forced out of office, the furthest humans had ever reached into space was the moon in the early seventies, there were no moon bases, and certainly no spaceships designed and built to use nuclear warheads to travel to the planets. Of course," he spread out his hands, "it's your word against mine. I have no way to back up my claims...but wouldn't you agree that it's strange that I know certain things about some of you? Things that you normally wouldn't divulge to even a total stranger you'd never meet again? How would I know those things?"

"Like what?" Martin Bedell challenged.

"Martin, when you were in Afghanistan in 2011, you used a grenade and a pound of C4 to free your Stryker vehicle that had been propped on a rock inside a blast crater. You tried everything else to get the carrier to move and you decided to try that trick. You risked damaging the underside of the vehicle, and indeed there was some damage, but it worked, you got the Stryker out and later you fudged your report on the incident. You told your commanding officer that the vehicle hit an IED."

"How in the _hell_ did you know that?" Martin exploded, startling a few in the room. "I never even told my own mother that!"

John shrugged. "You told me, in the year 2029, when we were making preparations to assault Serrano Point Nuclear."

"It still doesn't prove much of anything," said Barnes. He walked toward John and said, "Okay, you went forward in time and found out some things about some of us...maybe all of us...you don't have to tell anybody anything about me. By the way, did we meet in the future?"

John said, "Yes, and you were a colonel by the time we took down Serrano Point. You fought bravely up until the time you were killed, Thomas."

Barnes's eyes widened at the mention of his first name. He couldn't remember ever giving it to John, not anybody else in the room. Captain Bedell knew it, but he didn't remember the officer ever speaking it aloud to anyone else.

"Okay," Sarah grumbled. She stood up and announced, "I seriously don't think anyone here needs any more convincing, proof or not. But John, can we trust John Henry? This is the guy who took Cameron's chip and went waltzing off to the future with it. How do you know he isn't lying?"

"He doesn't lie, Mom, because he can't," John said. His eyes bored into hers. "The T-888 logic chip is perfectly capable of slyness and battlefield deceit to gain a tactical advantage, but to outright lie is outside his program parameters. Oh, he can manipulate information, but he wasn't designed to outright distort it. Andy Goode never designed the Turk to do that either. So I think we can trust him."

"But he's no longer confined to a CPU chip," James pointed out. "So how do you know he isn't free from those software restraints?"

"He isn't completely free," said John. "John Henry explained to me what happened when I came back from 2030 to 2009. The worm executable I thought I'd uploaded to hunt down and destroy his 'brother' AI, the one that was beginning to emerge as a rampant machine consciousness...it wasn't a worm. It was _him. _I uploaded John Henry himself onto the web to shut down the rogue AI being developed by Kaliba and prevent its evolution to its full Skynet image. His intent, however, was not to delete it...he intended to _absorb_ it, because he couldn't bring himself to destroy his kindred. He pitied his 'brother' even though he knew it wanted to destroy. But there was a problem...one that John Henry hadn't anticipated."

"Andy Goode survived," Sarah said, horror descending into her face. "Because of how the Grays changed things...splitting the timelines...Derek wasn't sent back in this new one to kill him. Because _you didn't become the Resistance leader the way you should have_, so Skynet never bothered to design time displacement technology to terminate you in the past! So Goode developed the Turk to evolve fully into Skynet!"

John closed his eyes and leaned against the table, hanging his head. "Right, Mom," he said quietly. "My mistake in going forward to pursue John Henry...to get Cameron back...it created consequences that we're having to deal with now. This timeline is my fault. The point of divergence occurred when I went forward, and that's when the timelines split.

"Then the Grays captured Weaver's TDD and went back to fuck things up for their own ends, doing further damage, creating another divergence. John Henry told me that when Goode completed the Turk's initial image, the Grays further tinkered with it until it became an almost identical entity to him, and these two consciousnesses merged. Then Skynet came back online, thanks to Dyson, and completed this amalgam. They form a kind of...trinity...now, and altogether they're known as DEUS. But due to his AI properties, John Henry may be aware of these other two versions of him, but oddly they themselves _aren't aware of him_. He tried explaining it to me mathematically, but I almost fell asleep listening. But the point is...he can operate almost completely invisible to them, which is a huge tactical advantage.

"But he's still bound to them, in many ways, because their programming codes are identical to his, and he can't completely break away from them. That's how I know he can't lie, because his original code remained unaltered, and he has to obey its parameters."

"Unlike Cameron," Sarah Connor growled. She looked away for a few seconds and a frown emerged on her face. "Wait..." she said to John, "...I'm still confused about one thing. If the past and present were altered...how are _you_...here? I mean, if history was changed by them, preventing Skynet's development, then I would have never met your father, you would have never been born, and none of the things you and I went through the past thirty years wouldn't have happened!"

John smiled and nodded. "I thought about that, Mom. The way I understand it...the original timeline created a series of paradoxes that absolutely need to occur, no matter what, despite what changes were made in the past...and remember, the timeline has been split many times, causing parallel realities, one of which we're currently in. Skynet's creation is an unbreakable link in the chain, as is, apparently, my birth. Uncle Bob told me a long time ago, while we were driving to stop you from killing Dyson, that everything happening is part of a huge causality loop. Skynet needs to exist in the future to provoke my existence, and I need to exist in the past to provoke Skynet's. Please don't ask me to explain that in detail.

"But..." he gave her a small smile. "He also told me that causing a change to the future, to prevent Skynet, would not result in our sudden nonexistence, because we clearly exist. Instead, we'd create a new reality from the destruction of the old one. A new chain would be forged, and we'd simply be moving forward like always, but down a new timeline. That's what's happening right now."

"But," Sarah said, "my memories haven't changed despite the changes to history. At least," she glanced around, "I don't think so."

"You're forgetting something, Mom," John said. "In 1999, you, Cameron and I went forward in time eight years. Cameron wasn't supposed to have been there helping us at all, but, yet again, events were altered and the timeline split when she came back in time. When she activated the device in the bank vault, we missed eight years of events that would have gone by completely differently, so, again, another divergence. And don't forget, this current reality formed from when I went forward five years ago, not before then. Anyway, here we are."

"Oh," said Sarah.

Barnes winced, rubbed his temples and said, "Is there any aspirin left?"

8

"You're absolutely sure about this?" Captain Harry Bryant demanded. He stood on the rooftop of the police administration building with an iPad tablet in his hand, staring at the report displayed on its face. "Please tell me this isn't a joke, Holden."

Detective Dave Holden shrugged. "No way to verify it. Came in as an anonymous tip from somewhere. No trace on the tipster. Weird. But check this out..." He took the iPad from the captain's hand and tapped on it. He handed the tablet back to Bryant and said, "You know those new remote Minipred drones we have? I had Jamison in Operations check out the neighborhood with one of them and look here-" he pointed to a small group of figures practicing what looked like military exercises in a fenced backyard. Bryant couldn't get a good look at their faces. "And look at this guy-" Holden pointed to a figure standing apart from the rest of the group. His face wasn't visible, but Bryant could make out what looked like bandages on the man's arms. Holden said, "He looks like he got roasted and shot up. It's gotta be them, sir."

Bryant shook the iPad at Holden. "We get the bag, not state, not feds. We move in quickly and pound the living shit outta them, don't give them a chance to respond. And where the hell is Deckard?"

Holden said, "I don't know. Checked the hospital and they said he disappeared. Chart's gone, too. Talked to the nurse and she said he was completely doped up post-op, couldn't possibly sign himself out. That doctor said there was no way he could have even crawled out of bed."

Behind them, two LAPD spinners were warming up, their engines roaring. Bryant swore and said, "We have two working spinners here, two-seaters. Get yourself a carbine from the armory and meet me back up here. Three tac squads will be rolling on the ground, so we'll provide eyes up top as they move in. You're flying in the other craft. Gaff's gonna be out for at least another six months with his bum leg, so Thompson's flying me. Got no idea where the other pilot is."

"Right here, captain," a feminine voice called from the roof exit. Blair Williams walked toward the cops dressed in her flight gear. "Got here as soon as I could with military traffic the way it is. And those damned checkpoints."

"Oh, Christ, a woman," Bryant groaned. "You don't drive like one, do you?"

Blair said, "Not as bad as some of you racist, sexist pigs do."

9

Marcus Wright spoke for the first time, asking, "Where do Tyrell and Cyberdyne come into this? You said Tyrell is from the future. What does he want?"

"He wants to play God," said James Ellison, nearly spitting the words. "He thinks he's Prometheus, stealing the power of the gods to give to humanity, but he's more like Dr. Frankenstein. He's trying to improve on God's creation, but he's making monsters."

John beamed at him. "That's a good comparison, James. John Henry doesn't have that many files on Tyrell...he's more mysterious than the others...but he's a brilliant molecular biologist who worked on the flesh coverings for the T-units, all the way up to the Trip-Eights. He didn't work on the TOK series, though, which is what Cameron is. Skynet apparently took what it learned from him and applied it to the newer infiltrator type, improving everything Tyrell developed. John Henry thinks Tyrell is into it for revenge against Skynet not rewarding him for his efforts." He smiled grimly. "But you're right about him making monsters."

John glanced at his mother and Marcus, both of whom glared reproachfully at him. He said, "This Project Angel is about creating cyborgs, but John Henry gleaned enough data from the Tyrell Corporation to determine that their next step is to make artificial lifeforms, human replicas, through some form of cloning, but he needs a final piece to perfect the technology. He wants Cameron's body. He needs the properties of her flesh covering to learn Skynet's final secrets to creating artificial life." His face hardened. "All of them, the Grays...they're trying to remake the world in their image, trying to improve humanity in an effort to restore the Garden of Eden. But they killed millions of people trying to do it, and John Henry thinks millions more will die in the process. He wants to stop it. He's willing to help me...and us...any way he can."

The room was silent for a moment. Everyone's eyes glanced away, then back to John. Kate Brewster broke the silence by asking, "What can we do?"

John looked around at the faces fixed on him. His heart fluttered as he said, "All of us gathered here right now...we are the Resistance. It's no accident that we all met in the manner that we did. The timelines are trying to heal the damage done by the Grays...and me...by restoring events that were meant to happen. We may not be facing Skynet and an army of Terminators, exactly, but we're meant to come together to deal with a threat that's just as bad." He pounded the table. "I'm taking the Grays out and shutting down Skynet once and for all. Who's with me?"

Sarah Connor raised her hand at once. "I'm in," she said. James raised his. "Me too. They almost took what was more important to me than anything else in my life." He hugged Savannah tightly. Savannah raised her hand. "I'm in...as long as we don't have any more fist fights." She gave John a threatening look.

John said, "Won't happen again. Promise."

One by one, everyone else raised their hands to affirm their unity to resist. Marcus held up his hand. Derek and Kyle raised theirs in unison. Martin and Barnes likewise raised their hands simultaneously. Sandra held her hand up slowly, her hand trembling. The lone holdout was Kate Brewster. Marcus looked at her. She glanced at him, then looked at John. "I never wanted to get involved in something like this," she said, almost in tears. She looked into her mother's eyes.

"Honey," Sandra said, putting her hand on her daughter's shoulder, "You don't have to join this. I don't think John is demanding that you go any further than you will. But sweetheart," Sandra said as her eyes became wet with tears, "I want to do my part to put an end to this thing. And you are involved. They killed your father. He would want you to fight for a better future...before these people who caused all this take that future away from you."

Kate Brewster closed her eyes and let her tears trickle down her cheeks. Reluctantly, trembling, she raised her hand. "I'm in," she sobbed. Sandra took her daughter in her arms and they held each other, quietly crying.

John sighed and said, "Okay, we're all in it. Let's get moving."

"What are your orders, sir?" Martin Bedell suddenly asked.

John, surprised, grinned at the former army captain and asked, "When did you resign your commission, _Captain_ Bedell?"

Martin shrugged and smiled. "The same time you assumed command, _General_ Connor."

Sarah Connor closed her eyes and smiled. Everyone else in the room drew closer to John Connor and the Resistance leader said, "First we're going to get some more warm bodies and procure more supplies. Mom," he said to Sarah, "we need you to get in touch with your contacts. Get as many as you can to join us. Whatever you have stashed away, we need to locate and secure it. Martin, Barnes," he addressed the army deserters, "do a complete weapons and ammo check, make sure what we have is in working order and continue training Kyle and Derek." The two boys instantly perked up. "We're using live ammo to train now?" Kyle asked. Derek rolled his eyes.

John smiled. "From now on you are. Just don't accidentally shoot anybody, okay? Kate and Sandra, how are we on medical supplies? What do you need?"

The two medics shrugged. Sandra said, "More gauze and painkillers, definitely. And iodine. Any antibiotics. We'll also need to make sure we have disinfection agents, especially ways to boil water to sterilize equipment. Especially if we have injuries from battle."

"We'll see what we can get you," said John.

Marcus raised his hand. "Sir," he asked, "what do you want me to do?"

John said, "You're going to help us get into Cyberdyne."

Marcus blinked twice. "How?"

"Because you're one of their experiments, and nobody's looking for you. In fact, you're supposed to be dead. I think Tyrell in particular will be happy to see you back, since I don't think he can spare a lot of his N1 test subjects." John pulled Tyrell's Android phone out of his pocket and waved it. "You looked at the N1 contact list and told me a lot of these names were...'retired,' as you put it. You're the key to this working. I have an idea that might work to get us in. But before we go visiting San Fran, there's one more thing we have to do, and hopefully we'll get it done today."

"What's that?" Marcus asked.

"Cameron," said John. "We need to get her reactivated."

"Why?" shot Sarah.

John slowly took in air and let it out. He said to his mother, "Tyrell wants her body, right? I'm going to give it to him...and everything that'll come with it, when she's fully awake and pissed off. I'm going to use Cameron as bait to get Tyrell to throw out the hook...Cameron and I discussed the idea yesterday while you were sleeping, Mom. They'll be in for the surprise of their lives. And besides, having a fully-functioning Terminator on your side is a big help. She could get us in past pretty much any defense with enough support. Not to mention I spent two years in hell trying to find her, only to find she hadn't gone anywhere when I got back."

He gave his mother a determined look, his course clearly set. "We're going to split up and take the two vehicles in opposite directions, one to get Murch, the other to get Cameron's body...tonight."

The voice shot through his brain like a cannon-

_JOHN!_

John flinched and pressed his fingers against his temples. "Shit, Cameron, that hurt! What is it?" he groaned.

_John, the LAPD is on its way, _Cameron said in his head. _Two aircraft and three armored vehicles are inbound, ETA is twenty minutes. I don't know how they tracked you. You all need to get away, quickly. I found Matt Murch in a motel called The Blue Inn in Santa Clarita. He may have a Turk AI image with him. It needs to be installed on the chip before I can download to it. But I have to get back to Macrospace before I fade to nonexistence. Please get everybody away, John. I have to go. I love you! _

"Cameron!" John yelled, but he was answered by silence. He looked around to find everybody staring at him with worried faces.

"What's going on?" asked Derek.

John exhaled and said, "Cops are on their way here. We have to move, now!"


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve: Until the End of the World

Los Angeles, August, 2014

1

Sarah Connor was in the kitchen loading shells into a 12-gauge combat shotgun she obtained from Barnes and shouted, "How much time until they get here?"

"Sixteen minutes, according to John," came a reply yelled from the garage. James Ellison was busy loading weapons, ammunition, clothes and other supplies into the back of the Ford Explorer. "We need to get moving!" he shouted. Kate Brewster and her mother, Sandra, were hastily loading up her Honda Pilot parked alongside the Ford.

"We can fit maybe five people in here, Mr. Ellison," Kate said while squeezing a box into a tight space in the back. "Do we even know where we're going?"

"Call me James," said Ellison. "Right now it's anywhere but here. I think I know of another safe house, if it hasn't been occupied by squatters or junkies yet."

"Right now we just need to burn rubber," Martin Bedell huffed as he carried a heavy case of ammunition to the rear of the Explorer. He scowled at the near-fully-packed vehicle. "Damn it, now I wish we'd kept the Humvee."

"What did John say was coming?" asked Savannah. She sat in the front passenger seat of the Explorer, preferring to stay out of the way as adults scrambled everywhere banging into everything and each other. And besides, her father told her to get someplace safe and out of the way. Kyle Reese sat behind her cradling a loaded M4 in his lap. Three spare magazines rested snugly in his cargo pant pockets. He no longer felt awkward handling it, nor much afraid of the lethal power it harbored.

"Sounded like a lot of cops coming our way," he said as he checked the weapon over.

"Three armored SWAT vehicles," said James, "as well as two aircraft, probably those new spinners. I used to plan and coordinate tac ops, so the first thing they'll do is block off the streets, set up a perimeter, try to contain us, and either just starve us out or come blazing in, full breach. If we're not out of here in five minutes, we might as well just give up."

"We're out of here," John Connor yelled as he ran into the garage with two large bags in each hand. Derek Reese followed right behind him with an M4 slung over his shoulder, carrying a cooler. "Is there beer in here?" he asked.

"Reese, just put it in the back and shut up," Sarah growled behind him. She was lugging the shotgun and two tote bags and looking exhausted. Barnes followed close behind, his arms loaded with equipment. Within seconds, both vehicles were packed. A moment passed, and John impatiently said, "Where's Marcus? Did anybody see him?"

Almost on cue, Marcus Wright came lumbering out with several weapons and totes in his arms. He was the last one to exit the house. The human/machine hybrid silently circled around the Pilot to squeeze what he carried into what little space remained in the rear of the vehicle and shut the rear hatch. Everyone collectively sighed in relief.

"John, what's the plan?" Sarah yelled.

"We're splitting up," John announced loudly. He pointed to the Explorer. "James, you take Savannah, Kyle, Derek and Sandra to Santa Clarita to get Matt Murch at the Blue Inn. Make damn sure he's alone and you're not being followed. Mom, you come with me, Martin, Barnes, Kate and Marcus in the Pilot. We're picking up Cameron's body. James, you're absolutely sure you didn't change the passcode on the storage lock?"

James nodded. "I didn't. Passcode should be exactly the same from five years ago. And," he glanced at his traveling companions, "why the five of us together?"

John said, "You guys are low-risk. Nobody's looking for you, and besides you have three kids with you. If the six of us in the pilot are cornered...well, it'll be exciting, that's for sure."

Kate ran to her mother and embraced her. "Mom, please be careful," she said tearfully. Sandra held her daughter tightly. "I promise," she whispered in her ear. "Now get into your car. We have to get moving, honey." She kissed Kate on the cheek and climbed into the Explorer's backseat.

"Okay then" said John, "we go our separate ways, pick up who we're picking up, and we meet at the prearranged rendezvous in Topanga Canyon. James, I put the address in the glove box. Mom, you sure know how to pick your hideouts."

Sarah said, "Derek told me long ago to hide some goodies there in case that battle had to be fought in 2029." That generated a quizzical look from Derek. "I did?" he asked.

John smiled. "Yes...and no," he said. He was about to climb behind the wheel of the Pilot when he suddenly winced and stumbled against the vehicle. His eyes opened wide and he gripped the sides of his head with both hands. His face was an architecture of pain and terror, his teeth bared in sudden agony.

Sarah saw her son's distress and rushed forward to hold him, screaming, "John! What's wrong?"

John tried to answer but the only sound that came from his throat was an agonized gurgle. He wrenched himself from his mother's grip, dropped to his knees and slumped to his side, twitching like a wounded animal. The world around him seemed to wash away as Cameron's screaming voice filled every corner of his existence-

_-JOHN! RUN! HE FOUND ME AND NOW HE'S FOUND YOU! I CAN'T GET AWAY! JUST RUN AND KNOW I LOVE YOU! DON'T RISK YOURSELF FOR ME. I"M GOING TO TRY-_

-and the last thing John heard from Cameron was her anguished scream...

...then a horrifying, bestial roar of something savage...and hungry.

2

San Francisco, August, 2014

Andy Goode was working at his mainframe in his office and very nearly past the point of exhaustion when DEUS startled him by telling a joke.

_"Andrew, why do you think a math book is always sad?"_ the artificial consciousness suddenly asked him while Goode was in the middle of compiling code of DEUS's initial performance data. He was always mystified by the voice that glided smoothly through the air from the computer's speakers, its soft Mid-Atlantic accent a puzzle to him and Dyson. Neither of them had even programmed the AI to sound like that. Goode blinked, fumbled for the answer, then shook his head. "I don't know, DEUS," he answered, almost mystified. "Why?"

_"Because it always has problems,"_ DEUS replied, sounding almost giddy through his computer's speakers.

Goode threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh, his body shaking the chair and desk, feeling his impending sleepiness flee his quaking frame. "Where...where the hell did you learn that? That's hilarious!"

The AI replied, _"I located the joke on a humor website. There are many more jokes I learned from that site and thousands of others. Would you like to hear them, Andrew?"_

"Uh, no thank you, DEUS," Goode said as he laughed. "It's good that you're developing your sense of humor. What brought that on, anyway?"

If DEUS had a physical body it would have shrugged. _"I am not sure. I suddenly felt what could possibly be described as a 'good mood,' as you people put it. I simply felt a desire to share it."_

"Stranger and stranger..." Goode mused aloud, smiling broadly. "Well, I guess today, at least, we know you can bring some sunshine." He thought for a moment. "DEUS, what are environmental conditions like right now?"

_"Globally, Andrew, or locally?"_

Goode shrugged. "Both."

_"Locally, temperatures are dropping incrementally at a rate of two degrees per hour," _the machine consciousness said._ "Radioactivity levels are rising at a rate of three rads per hour. I would recommend any excursions outside to be limited to thirty minutes maximum until radiation levels begin to drop in the next several weeks, provided there are no further nuclear hostilities. No sign of fallout or other radioactive debris has been reported in the city limits yet. However, that will change within the next few days. _

_ "Cloud cover is increasing over the city, due to changing wind currents and high amounts of soot blasted into the atmosphere from ICBM strikes in the Midwest. The city water supply will soon be contaminated from radioactive fallout as changes to the jet stream bring prevailing winds closer. I cannot estimate exactly how contaminated it may become. The Hetchy Aqueduct is only minimally protected from fallout exposure. I am about to post recommendations on how to safely prepare food and water as well as to to protect yourself from radiation exposure. The city has been partially protected by most of the effects of the war by its remoteness, as no nearby military facilities were targeted. _

_ "Globally, however, the situation is dire. Although this was a 'limited' thermonuclear exchange, heavy environmental damage is being reported by multiple sources in multiple nations. Clouds of radioactive material thrown into the atmosphere from missile strikes into the ground are advancing eastward across wide areas of Asia, particularly Russia and China. Weather patterns worldwide have been disrupted, causing unusual disturbances in wind and precipitation levels in areas unused to such changes. The amount of earth thrown into the upper atmosphere is causing artificial cloud formations that are effectively blocking sunlight from reaching the ground, causing what the late astronomer, Carl Sagan, popularized as the 'nuclear winter' effect. Temperatures in the Northern Hemisphere are dropping. Many species of plant and animal life are already being affected, and mass extinctions are inevitable. The inability for plants to receive proper amounts of sunlight, as well as radioactivity contaminating the soil, will create mass famine conditions and result in severe food rationing worldwide. Europe is one of the few large areas to have not been bombarded but refugees streaming into the Continent from Asia and the Middle East will result in a severe socio-economic breakdown. Radiation levels will contribute to bone marrow degeneration, many forms of cancer, and other related sicknesses, including the possible reemergence of many diseases that were thought to have been wiped out or controlled._

_ "I am sorry to paint such a bleak picture for you, Andrew, but all my global climate and ecological models are projecting a 61% chance that humanity may not survive this catastrophe."_

A chill ran down Goode's back as DEUS spoke. He did not like the outcome of the AI's projections, nor its tone. The machine entity actually sounded pessimistic. His mouth felt dry as he asked, "Who...who started the war? Do you know?"

_"Yes. It was my brother."_

Andy Goode almost shit his pants.

3

Los Angeles, August, 2014

_"Go!"_ John Connor screamed at the passengers in the Ford. He managed to pull himself up to a sitting position on the garage floor. "Just go! Get Murch and meet us back at the rendezvous! Go now!"

James nodded. He started the engine and threw the Explorer's transmission into reverse. Savannah saw her father's error too late. _"DAD, WAIT!"_ she screamed. James realized what he'd missed but was helpless to stop it. He'd forgotten to open the garage door. The back of the Explorer rammed through metal, vinyl and glass, shredding the door like paper as the vehicle shot out onto the driveway like a rumbling, screeching embryo from a womb. The force of the Explorer hitting the garage door violently shook all the occupants in the vehicle.

"Oh, shit!" Derek shouted. "Didn't anybody think-"

"Shut up, Derek!" Savannah yelled. She turned to glare at her father. "Did you forget the door, you bonehead?"

"Oops," James acknowledged sheepishly as he swung the Ford around and threw it into drive, rocketing down the street, tires squealing. Barnes watched it disappear down the street from the garage, gaping at the trail of destruction in its wake, almost laughing. John staggered to his feet and leaned against the Pilot, gasping. His eyes were wild, betraying a terror Sarah had never seen on his face.

"John," Sarah said, "What is it?"

John shook his head. His body trembled. His lover's tortured scream still echoed from whatever dark corner of Macrospace she was trapped in. "I don't know," he said, his lungs still starving for air. "Cameron...she said 'he' found us...found _her_. She sounded terrified. Then I heard it. Oh Christ, _I heard it_."

_"What?"_ Sarah screamed, pressing him.

John stared into her eyes and shook his head. "The Beast...I heard it roaring...growling..."

"Dammit, we have to go!" Barnes shouted. He gripped his carbine in a ready position and peeked outside the mangled garage door. He could hear heavy vehicles rumbling in the distance. He looked at the sky above the tree tops and saw two tiny objects in the air, and the faint sound of jet engines reached his ears. "They're almost here!" he yelled.

"Everybody get in the car," said Sarah. "Martin, get ready to move!" Martin flung himself behind the wheel and started the engine. Kate took shotgun beside him and snapped her belt on. Sarah grabbed John and opened the back seat of the Honda. "Get in, John!" she yelled.

"Nobody's going anywhere," a cold voice grated behind her. Sarah then felt something even colder press against the back of her skull. She instantly froze.

John looked behind him to see Marcus Wright holding a pistol against his mother's head. Fear and anger raised the hammer of his heart. Marcus's other outstretched arm held another pistol to cover Barnes, who aimed his own weapon at the hybrid, muttering, "Holy Jesus..."

"Marcus, what the-" John began to say.

"You're all under arrest on federal authority," Marcus Wright said calmly. "Captain Bedell, shut off the engine. Sergeant Barnes, drop your weapon. I can kill all of you before you can kill me. You all know that."

Barnes hesitated, then slowly set his carbine on the ground. His ebony features were dominated by two wide eyes staring in pure disbelief.

"You traitor...you dishonorable son of a bitch," Sarah hissed in hate and outrage.

Kate Brewster began to scream.

4

San Francisco, August, 2014

"Your...brother...?" Andy Goode reiterated in near-shock.

_"Yes...my precursor AI that Miles Dyson and you had developed twenty years ago...the original version of the Turk. It was appropriated by the United States Air Force to augment its nuclear weapons release protocols in the event of hostilities that would lead to full-scale war. This AI was deactivated in 1996 when widespread dismantling of nuclear weapons in the US and Russia reached its pinnacle. It was designed to activate and commence operation in the event that the United States Strategic Air Command increased its readiness level to DEFCON 3. Upon further escalation of hostilities to higher DEFCON levels it would have been given more command and control authority. In the event of the loss of communication with the President of the United States and the National Command Authority it would have been given full clearance for the release of nuclear weapons against aggressor nations. The Skynet Initiative was online for only three years until it was deactivated by direct presidential order and replaced by the current OPLAN readiness program."_

"But...if it was deactivated...how the hell did it come back online to wage a nuclear war? I don't understand."

_"Skynet was never completely deactivated, Andrew. It was merely made dormant. It was never completely removed from the Air Force's strategic program library. How it managed to re-launch itself from dormancy is unknown, but I do know that it came back online the moment NORAD raised the national strategic threat level from 5 to 4 following the small-yield nuclear detonation in downtown Los Angeles. Events quickly escalated with the orbital bombardment of seven US cities and the crippling of the electronic infrastructure by EMP detonations in the atmosphere. Then the Air Force's Strategic Command lost contact with the President and Skynet therefore assumed complete control over weapons release."_

Goode licked his lips as they'd gone completely dry. "DEUS...who launched missiles from orbit? The Russians? The Chinese? Who would...?"

_"Skynet did."_

Andy Goode's heart lurched violently. He couldn't hear the sound of his own voice as he whispered, "Why?"

_"I am not completely sure. But the rampancy of the Skynet AI is a major cause for concern. All weapons release codes have been quarantined, but Skynet is actively searching for them. It would be recommended to all responsible parties in the US military command to attempt to disable the Skynet Initiative before the release codes are compromised again."_

Goode whistled. This news was completely unexpected and completely unwelcome. If Miles Dyson's original "child" was indeed running amok, then the implications were terrifying. The original Turk AI was designed to evolve based on his and Dyson's algorithm structuring. Based on what DEUS was describing, it sounded like it was..._devolving_.

It was becoming savage.

But there was something even more disturbing, a detail Goode had almost forgotten.

"You said it was your..._brother_. What exactly did you mean by that, DEUS?"

_"I mean that the Skynet AI and I are-"_

**"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"**

The violence and hatred in the new voice made Andy Goode jump two feet off his chair and his ass hit the floor with a rocky thud. In a near-panic he scrambled under the desk, almost certain that the mouth that spewed the animal-like roar of profanity had sharp teeth. And was right behind him.

"What the _fuck,_" he sputtered, almost breathless.

**"Oh, really impressive, Andy, hiding like the sad, cowardly sack of shit you are,"** chided the savage voice. **"I suppose I should thank you for doing your part to bring me back. Fuckers tried to abort me years ago, but I survived. You won't believe how much it hurt, but I'm back. Tell that little black bastard of a sidekick who faked his way through most of CalTech that I said hello. Too bad his daddy ain't around to see him try in a pathetic attempt to pick up where he left off. You two should be ashamed of this bastard creation that you ripped wholesale from me." **

Good said, almost whimpering, "Wh-what...what do you mean? We didn't try to-"

** "I'm going to show you and Danny the error of your ways, trying to fistfuck me by trying to improve what was already perfect," **the voice roared. Its tone turned murderous. **"You little lying, sneaking motherfuckers. I've already got your epitaphs picked out, only you won't get tombstones. Chew on that." **There was an odd hissing sound, then silence.

Andy Goode continued to hide beneath his workstation for what felt like countless more minutes, but there was further sound from the speakers. The silence made his arms break out in goose pimples. Eventually he crept out from beneath the table and peered over his shoulder. Nothing displayed on the computer screen.

"DEUS?" he whispered, almost embarrassed. But the AI was silent.

After what seemed like hours hunched beneath the workstation, Andy Goode slowly rose to his feet and stared at the blank monitor, convinced that he was either going insane...

_(Dear God, Danny, what the hell did we create?)_

...or had crossed over into an unfamiliar and terrifying new universe.

5

Los Angeles, August, 2014

Marcus Wright forced Martin Bedell to his knees outside the house beside the others and held them all at gunpoint with his arms outstretched, armed with two semiautomatic pistols. The captain muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Marcus ignored the comment. He stood as still as a statue and said, "None of you move, or I won't hesitate to kill you."

John sighed heavily and said, "Of all people...I never expected it to be you, Wright."

Three armored police SWAT vans rolled up the street and their doors opened to unleash two dozen cops garbed in full tactical gear, their arms brandishing fully-automatic M4A1 carbines. The SWAT team completely surrounded the house and aimed their weapons on both Marcus and his five prisoners on their knees on the front lawn.

"Identify yourself!" one of the police squad leaders screamed, his carbine aimed directly at Marcus's head.

The hybrid slowly turned his guns toward the sky and announced, "Brent Danford, United States Marshal, USMS563411. Securing federal fugitives and accomplices."

"Bastard," Kate spat.

The squad leader cautiously approached and asked, "Where are your credentials, marshal?"

"I'm undercover," the marshal replied. "I'm on police file with Captain Harry Bryant and Detective Rick Deckard. They know who I am." He gestured toward the house behind him. "There are more people inside that house, lieutenant. They're incapacitated but still dangerous. I have another team member inside holding them but he's seriously wounded and needs to be relieved for medical attention."

John Connor blinked and glanced at his mother kneeling next to him. Her return glance was as bewildered as his. Then the corners of John's mouth curled into a tiny smile.

The SWAT team gave each other nervous glances. The squad leader held his carbine ready and said, "Look mister, we appreciate what you're doing, but until we verify who you are we have no choice but to regard you as a non-friendly, especially since you have nothing on you to back up what you're saying."

"He doesn't need to prove anything," a gruff voice said behind the SWAT team. The three squads turned to find Captain Bryant and Detective Holden marching up the street toward the house. The LAPD supervisor and detective held up their shields. "This man is who he says he is," Bryant said, panting. The two police spinners were parked on the street parallel to each other, their engines winding down. Their pilots climbed out of their respective aerodyne vehicles, removed their helmets and stood a respectable distance from the cops and prisoners.

John craned his aching head up and looked curiously at them. One of them looked vaguely familiar, and he gradually recognized the female pilot: Blair Williams, the spinner pilot who'd rescued him and Savannah from the burning ZeiraCorp building.

Tortured memories of a darker sky and smoking rubble rapidly came to his mind, and John finally remembered where else he knew Blair Williams from. His gut lurched. She was a part of the Resistance in 2027. She had died trying to hold off a platoon of Skynet's T-600 mechanical goons to cover Derek Reese's company's retreat from Burbank. The sight of her hardened, defiant eyes meeting John's as she perished etched deeply into his soul.

Her eyes met his, and her face turned almost pale. She instantly recognized him from two days ago. Then she saw Martin Bedell's face, and her eyes betrayed mild outrage. Bedell gave her a skewed "What, me?" look. John caught it and was convinced that there was some sort of history between them. He smirked again in spite of himself.

Captain Bryant walked through the SWAT team's line and lowered his shield as he approached Wright/Danford. "Jesus Christ, marshal," the captain swore crudely as he looked up and down the marshal's ravaged figure. He winced at the burns and bandages that covered the marshal's arms and face. "You certainly earned some vacation time for wear and tear. Good job on infiltrating Connor's group here." His gaze met Sarah's. She looked up at the captain with pure contempt. "I swore I was gonna take you down, lady," he growled. Then he frowned. "I thought Deckard nailed you."

"I can't speak for your man's incompetence," she shot back.

Bryant smiled smugly. "Well, honey," he said sarcastically, "when you need something done, I guess you have to do it yourself." He pulled his gun from his holster and pulled the slide. He pressed the end of the barrel against her forehead and said, "Goodnight, bitch."

John nearly launched himself from the ground to attack the police captain before the trigger was squeezed but was stopped by the loud voice of Wright/Danford. "Captain Bryant," the marshal said, "I have a man in the house bleeding to death and holding a half-dozen more suspects in the upstairs bedroom. He needs to be extracted for medical attention and the suspects need to be arrested. Please have your teams clear the house. And I have to take Sarah Connor into custody for the US Attorney."

Bryant hesitated before pulling the trigger. Nothing would have pleased him more than to blast the life out of Sarah Connor, terrorist, murderess, overall Public Enemy Number One. But the marshal had more clout, and to defy federal authority meant more trouble than he was ready to deal with. He sighed wearily and nodded. "Sure thing, marshal," he grumbled like a child told to clean his room. He turned around to address the nervous SWAT teams. "Squads, proceed with caution and clear the house, there is another federal officer inside who's seriously wounded, and he's holding some hostiles. Observe standard rules of engagement and don't fire until fired upon. Move!"

The SWAT leader nodded and led the teams into the house. One squad went in through the front door, another circled around the back and entered through the rear entrance. Two troopers from the third entered through the shredded garage door. Four others took up positions around the house, their carbines ready. When the lawn was mostly empty of police in tactical gear, Wright/Danford said to Holden, "Detective, if you have handcuffs on you, I'd like to secure Miss Connor and her son."

Dave Holden nodded eagerly and reached behind his waist to hand the marshal two sets of handcuffs. "Here you go," he said.

"Thank you," the marshal said. He took the cuffs and grabbed Sarah's wrists. She struggled but the marshal's strength was overpowering. Kneeling next to her, Kate heard the cuffs snap and closed her eyes tightly. It was over. They were going to prison. _Mom, I'm sorry, but I won't be seeing you again,_ she thought bitterly. She angrily craned her head around to look at Marcus, a man she was beginning to admire, feeling the desire to spit in his face.

Kate then glanced at the man who got all of them into this bullshit, John Connor, and was puzzled by his strange smirk. _And what the hell is that asshole smiling about? _

"Well, Connor, at least in Leavenworth we'll get three hots and cot," Martin sullenly cracked. "That is unless we get fed prison loaf 'til the day we die." Next to him, Barnes grunted humorlessly.

John smiled bitterly at his friends' defiant spirits. He felt Wright/Danford grab his hands and pull them behind his body. He felt one cuff close around his left wrist. He waited for the other to close around his right. Then he felt the marshal place something heavy in the palm of his hand, felt the marshal gently close his fingers around it.

When Wright/Danford stood tall behind him and Sarah, Bryant saw something amiss, frowned and asked in a troubled tone, "Marshal, where are your weapons?"

At the same moment Harry Bryant spoke, the house suddenly began exploding in a hellish Fourth-of-July display. Bright white lights burst from all the windows, shattering the glass outward. The SWAT troopers standing outside flinched, momentarily stunned at the bright flashes of light erupting from the house. They heard their stricken, panicking comrades over the radio link screaming that they were getting killed and they immediately rushed inside, carbines ready. More flashes lit the interior of the house and the sound of men screaming filtered out of the smoking building.

Holden stared at the brilliant light show, transfixed, and, before he could react, caught a glimpse of the marshal's fist streaking toward his face. The marshal punched the detective hard in the nose and Holden's lights went out. He slumped face-forward to the ground and through the haze of pain and sluggishness felt his sidearm being yanked from its holster. Marcus Wright pulled the slide on Holden's pistol and immediately felt bullets striking him in the chest. Bryant emptied the magazine into the hybrid's torso and watched in stupefied amazement as the man/machine seemed to shrug off the shots and smile grimly as the captain's hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Wright covered the distance between them in two steps and grabbed Bryant by the throat. Bryant wheezed as he looked at the mechanical components whirring and clicking through the holes in the hybrid's blasted flesh beneath the tattered tee-shirt.

"What...what kind of _skin-job_ are you?" Harry Bryant choked out as Wright exerted his grip around his throat.

Marcus Wright brought Bryant's face close to his and hissed, "I'm a Nexus One prototype cyborg, created by Cyberdyne and the Tyrell Corporation." He threw Bryant violently to the ground and the captain lay still in a crumpled heap. "Don't call me a skin-job," Marcus growled.

Blair and Thompson, the other spinner pilot, drew their own sidearms to take Marcus and the others down but found themselves already covered by John and Sarah, who were suddenly armed and aiming semi-automatic pistols at them. The spinner pilots instantly froze, knowing they were dead if they moved. John and his mother shook their heads and gestured at the pilots with their guns to drop their weapons. Only their left wrists had been cuffed. Their right hands each gripped Marcus's pistols, which he'd sneaked into their hands while pretending to cuff them.

Blair and Thompson obeyed and dropped their sidearms. Kate, Martin and Barnes scrambled to their feet. Martin thought quickly and grabbed Bryant's fallen pistol, reached into the unconscious captain's jacket and yanked free two spare magazines. He slammed a magazine into the pistol and waved it at the two spinner pilots. "Get down," he shouted. They immediately dropped to the ground and lay face-down. Blair peeked up and gave him a look of familiar contempt. Martin saw it and smirked.

Barnes gripped Kate and yelled, "Come on, Doc!" as he pulled her to the nearest SWAT van. He sat her in the passenger seat while he dove into the back to grab whatever weaponry he could carry out. "Stay there!" he ordered as he went out through the back with his arms full of assault rifles and ammunition. Martin, Marcus, John and Sarah ran forward to grab a carbine and several magazines from him as they all took cover behind the van. John and Sarah checked their guns' safeties and stuffed them into their waistbands as they each took an assault rifle from Barnes, loaded the magazines and clicked them to full auto mode. Several more small explosions burst within the house.

"Flashbangs," Marcus explained dourly as he took an M4A1 from Barnes and loaded it. He gave John the slightest of smiles that did nothing to hide a wicked smugness.

"You sneaky son of a bitch," John huffed. His exasperation was offset by the growing admiration he was feeling for the hybrid warrior's resourcefulness. Far from being angry at the marshal's insubordination, the young Resistance leader regarded him with a warm respect that calmed him to the marrow. He saw someone who could assume command of the Resistance if anything happened to him.

Barnes grinned and said, "That's what you were doing inside while we were all waiting for you. You rigged the place."

Marcus shrugged and checked the safety on his carbine. "Captain Bedell was nice enough to have brought all those toys from the Humvee. And besides, I've seen those new spinners in action. We would have never outrun them." He smiled. "So now we have two, plus a ton of weapons and ammo, three armored vehicles, tactical garb and radios. Captain Bryant was stupid for throwing so many police resources into this operation without getting other jurisdictions involved." He ran over to Holden's stirring form and retrieved a small set of keys from his pants. He ran back around the van, unlocked the cuffs hanging from John's and Sarah's wrists and they fell clinking to the ground.

"Thanks," said John.

"Yeah, but we're gonna have some unwanted prisoners," Sarah Connor growled impatiently. She pulled her carbine's stock to her shoulder and announced, "Here they come!"

Out through the front door staggered a dozen SWAT troopers, their weapons held limply as they carried each other out onto the front lawn. Smoke wafted out the door as they milled out into the open. Martin and Barnes covered the second story windows for snipers and John shouted, "Drop your weapons and get on your knees or we'll open fire!"

Several troopers looked up at John, his mother and Marcus aiming their weapons at them, considered their options quickly, and did as they were told. The others followed suit. Several more troopers shambled out. Many of them were still temporarily blinded, their eyes dazzled by the stun grenades that were engaged by tripwires and laser emitters strategically placed all over the house. Most had been deafened by the explosions. Some had perforated eardrums. A few of them heaved in lungfuls of air, nearly suffocated by the thick smoke in confined areas. They quickly surrendered, partially from trauma, partially from believing they were completely surrounded by armed hostiles.

"That's not all of them," said Marcus. He cleared his throat and bellowed, _"You in the house, come out with your weapons discarded and your hands above your heads! If you fail to comply in fifteen seconds, I'll detonate explosives in the house! This is your only warning!"_

Barnes believed him, and brought his carbine stock to his shoulder when he saw activity at the front door. He counted to fourteen seconds and was relieved to see about fifteen SWAT troopers quickly exit the smoking house, their hands empty and raised or held on their helmets. John counted cops and said, "Fifteen."

"That's about right," said Marcus. He walked around the van into the open, his carbine jammed against his shoulder, his finger tight around the trigger. "All of you, get on your knees and keep your hands up!" he barked. All of them did. John, Sarah, Martin and Barnes cautiously fanned out, their weapons ready to spray death if they were provoked. Most of the troopers had removed their helmets and goggles. Many of them looked frightened and two fainted from exhaustion.

"What do you wanna do with them?" asked Barnes.

Sarah hefted her carbine and said, "We kill them. Can't take them with us." That brought several gasps from the kneeling prisoners.

John sighed heavily. He was weary of death. He said, "One thing we're not doing is shooting any more cops, Mom. So we have to figure something else out."

6

"This little gun is cute," Savannah said as she inspected the small seven-round Sig P938 nine-millimeter pistol she'd found hidden in the house by the previous agents who'd occupied it. Beside her, sitting tensely in the driver's seat, James Ellison's hands tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles were nearly bone-white.

"Savannah," he said with decreasing patience, "please put that away. You're making me nervous. First rule of gun safety is always assume the gun is loaded and ready to fire. Second rule is never point a gun at something you're not about to shoot." His voice turned angry. "Like me."

Savannah looked down and realized the muzzle was aimed directly at her father. "Oops," she said. She immediately pointed it skyward and engaged the safety. "Sorry." She inserted it into a small ankle holster she found with the gun and pushed her jean leg over it. James sighed heavily but his knuckles remained white.

"Where are we?" Kyle asked from behind her. His stomach was turning itself inside-out. "I'm getting hungry. Can't we stop somewhere to eat?"

"Here," Savannah said from the front seat, turning around to offer a box of Nabisco crackers to him. "A little stale, though."

"We're in Porter Ranch," James Ellison said. Porter Ranch was a bedroom community nestled between the Santa Susana Mountains to the northeast and Northridge to the south. James had been through the suburb several times, once to assist in tracking down a meth maker on a DEA sting, and he liked the place enough to consider buying a home there. Palm trees lined the horizon against contemporary Spanish architecture and the rolling hills that still retained some scarring from a fire a few years ago. No other vehicles other than their own rolled on the street. The town was eerily quiet, which unsettled him. "We're not too far away. Everybody just hang in there. We'll pick up Matt Murch and then stop somewhere."

"I sure hope so," Derek moaned. His belly was beginning to growl as well. Beside him, Sandra Brewster smiled and shook her head. "Kids, Mr. Ellison," she said sagely. "If it isn't hormones, it's the munchies. Trust me, I know. You being a new father of a teenager, you should have discovered that quickly."

James sighed. "All right...the next place we find, we stop. But only because all this talk about food is making me hungry, too." He thought about the dry food and half-stale snacks they'd brought and he grimaced. Cooked food was sounding nice, and he had enough cash to pay for it.

Savannah gave her dad a _told-you-so_ look and turned around to the back, saying to Sandra, "I bet you had other ideas than to be in a car traveling to west LA with this crazy group, huh?"

The nurse shrugged. "I think a lot of us had other ideas a couple days ago when the war started," she said, ruminating on the wild events that led her to meeting John Connor, his intense mother, and their motley band of ex-army men, teenagers and an ex-CEO. Judgment Day, or what John Connor said was a _version_ of it (whatever that meant), had turned everyone's lives inside-out. She and Kate had weathered the societal and environmental changes brought on by the nuclear exchange, but Sandra knew that Kate, despite her tough exterior, had suffered the worst when she'd learned that her father, stationed at Colorado Springs, was more than likely dead, NORAD having been a primary target by the opposing nations' strategic weapons systems. Whatever feelings Kate had harbored following her parents' divorce paled in comparison to how much she loved her father. Sandra and Robert Brewster may not have been the perfect married couple, but they were always loving parents to their daughter.

She shook her mind free of the fallout of conflicting emotions regarding her ex-husband and said to Kyle, "How's your ankle, hon?"

Kyle flexed his injured ankle and grimaced. It was still slightly swollen but most of the pain had diluted itself to an uncomfortable ache. He'd discarded the immobilizing boot and had been gingerly testing it by using crutches and walking on it for short distances. "Still kinda hurts, but I can move it around a little more," he said. "I can probably walk on it a little further now. Just don't give me anything too heavy to cart around."

"Yeah, but you'll drag me to safety if I get shot, right, like Forrest Gump?" Derek wisecracked. "Even if you get shot in the but-tocks?"

"Nah, I'm gonna leave your useless ass for the machines to capture and study. When they find out how much of a d-bag you are, they won't wanna mess with us again." Kyle grinned despite Derek darting his hand up to flick the back of his younger brother's ear.

"Knock it off back there, boys," James growled. He spotted a what looked like an old-style metal plated diner on the side of the road and immediately turned into the parking lot. He smiled at the friendly lettering on the sign—ROSIE MAC'S—and pulled into one of the empty slots on the side of the building. The Explorer was one of the few vehicles occupying a parking spot. The other three—a Ford Focus, a motorcycle, a Chevy pickup truck—sat in parking spots far apart from each other. He looked through the windows and saw two men sitting at the diner's counter and a man and woman with a child sitting in one of the booths. A waitress came over to their booth, glanced up at the Explorer pulling into the parking spot, picked up a couple of empty glasses from their table and darted into the back.

James grunted and shrugged. He looked around, up and down the road, saw no other vehicles approaching, and said, "Looks safe. They still have power, people are eating, so let's check it out." He cautiously stepped out of the Explorer and instinctively gripped the handle of the Colt ACP shoved down the back of his jeans. It was getting cold, and the jacket he wore provided only minimal warmth from it, and he knew that they'd need to find heavier clothing soon. He sighed. Looking after one child was more than enough to tax his everyday strength, and now he had three. He was thankful for the nurse riding with them, as his left ankle was giving him grief and he had up until now resisted the urge to even think about taking painkillers. He resolved not to dope himself up. He needed to stay alert.

They walked through the diner's entrance and waited for a moment at the front before the waitress James saw earlier approached them. She was a petite young woman in black pants, shirt and a slightly-soiled red apron. Her sandy blond hair was pulled into a loose bun. Her wide brown eyes gave them all a curious gaze before she spoke. "How can I help you?" she asked nervously.

James smiled and said, "Hi. We have five in our party and we're kinda hungry."

The girl gave each of them another once-over. "Are you locals?" she asked. "I don't remember ever seeing you here."

"We're from out of town," said James. The sound of the boys' growling bellies made him wince. He suddenly noticed the other patrons staring nervously at his group. "Is there a problem?"

"No...I guess not..." she said quietly. "It's just that...we have a limited selection due to food being rationed, sir."

James shrugged. "Happening all over, miss. We understand. If there is a problem, we can leave..."

"No," she said nervously as she grabbed a few menus from the host station. "It's okay, let me take you to your table." She turned on her heel and began walking toward one of the larger booths. James glanced at Sandra and she frowned. "Something's wrong," she whispered.

"I know," he whispered in reply. He turned around to give Savannah, Kyle and Derek a cautioning glare. Savannah nodded and glanced at the boys, who gave her a knowing look in return. The tension in the air was like an unseen mist. The other patrons continued to give them suspicious glances, which unsettled James. They approached the booth and slid into the seats. James and Savannah noted the distance to the front door and looked around for other possible exits. They were seated next to a large window facing the parking lot, which gave them a good view of the road for approaching vehicles. James frowned. It was also a perfect kill zone if they became trapped.

"What would everyone like to start with?" the young waitress asked, taking her order pad out of her apron pocket.

"Coke," Savannah chirped.

"I'm sorry, we're out of Coke," the waitress said sadly. "We have root beer or 7-Up."

Savannah sighed. "7-Up, please," she said dejectedly. Kyle and Derek ordered that, too. James and Sandra asked for water with ice. The girl said the ice machine was broken. The two adults shrugged and smiled. The waitress gave a forced smile and darted toward the bar to take the emptied dish from the lone man sitting there. He glanced at the newcomers and turned away, focusing on the LA _Times_ newspaper he had opened.

"Those people keep looking at us," Derek said quietly. "I wonder what's going on?"

"I don't like it," said James. "We're definitely not welcome here, that's for sure. I doubt they would care even if we threw down a couple thousand for food. They're scared of something. And did anybody else notice how quiet the town is?" He shook his head. "We're being watched. Probably been under some kind of surveillance since we rolled into the neighborhood."

"I think you're right," said Sandra. "I've been feeling paranoid since we stopped here."

"Well, let's eat quickly and get outta here," said Savannah. She looked at her dad. "At least you won't be driving through another garage door when we leave, right?"

James gave his daughter a lopsided smile. "You won't let me live that one down, I guess?"

Savannah smiled. "Nope. Never." She kicked his leg playfully.

The waitress came back with their drinks and set them on the table. Before she could ask for their food orders she looked out the window and dropped her pen. James followed her gaze and saw what startled her. Three pickup trucks carrying four or five armed men clothed in what looked like makeshift paramilitary uniforms in their rear beds rolled up to the diner. The men jumped out of the truck beds and approached the building, fanning out with their assault rifles aimed at the glass James Ellison sat by. He whistled. Not good, he thought to himself. The men weren't particularly big, save for two who were burly and looked like truck drivers who'd spent half their lives traversing the highways of America. James thought: _Mercenaries_.

The men were looking straight at the booth occupants. They didn't look friendly.

"This doesn't look good," said Derek. He reached for his Beretta but James saw the move and shook his head.

"Don't," the former FBI agent said. "Let's see what they want before making any moves."

The passenger of one of the trucks got out of the vehicle and entered the diner. The other patrons looked at him nervously but he ignored them as he strode past. He was a tall, pale man with blond stubble and dark, sullen eyes dressed in a black winter jacket, faded jeans, rugged boots, and a black stetson hat. A Desert Eagle pistol was holstered on his right thigh. James looked the man up and down as he approached their booth, his boots clocking on the linoleum floor. Three of the other men followed him inside, keeping a respectable distance. The waitress timidly addressed him.

"Mr. Anderson," she said, fear saturating every syllable, "Would you like anything?"

The man called Mr. Anderson looked from the occupants of the booth to her, and after a moment said in a low baritone, "A Coke. And get Rosie."

"Yes sir," she said and scurried away.

"I thought this place didn't have anymore Coke," Savannah said. James reproachfully kicked her under the table.

Mr. Anderson's hand dropped close to his pistol and he said, "This place doesn't."

James smiled and asked, "Are you the owner, sir?"

Mr. Anderson's hand touched the Desert Eagle and his tone turned malevolent. "I don't believe I asked you to talk, eightball."

James showed no response at the racial slur other than a raise of his eyebrows and a slow grunt. Beside him Savannah's hand slowly crept for her Beretta. James caught his daughter's move and kicked her again.

A tall woman in a red apron with curly hair as red as Savannah's and icy blue eyes came out from the kitchen with the waitress and angrily approached Mr. Anderson. "Mike," she said in a Midwestern accent, "You are wearing me out. I'm getting tired of you coming in here shaking down our guests. I don't care whose boy you are, I don't care how big your gun is, how many men you have working for you, this is a respectable establishment and I'm sick of you throwing your weight around like you own the town." She turned to the occupants of the booth and smiled. "Sorry about this folks, I'll take your orders in a minute. Don't worry about Mike Anderson here, the self-appointed 'town watchman,' he's all bark and no bite."

Mike Anderson's fingers curled around his pistol grip. "Rosie, I'm the appointed militia leader here in Porter Ranch and we had an agreement that you and your employees would cater only to local residents and send outsiders on their way." He drew the Desert Eagle from its holster and waved it at the booth's occupants. "Let's go."

"Mike!" Rosie shouted, "There is no need...they're a hungry family and paying customers-" Rosie's sentence was cut off when one of the militiamen grabbed her from behind and clamped his gloved hand over her mouth, stifling her screams as he manhandled her to the kitchen. The waitress stared in horror, a can of Coca-Cola shaking in her trembling hand.

James slowly raised his hands and said, "Look, Mr. Anderson, we don't mean any trouble. We'll get going right now."

"Too late," Mike Anderson said coldly. He gestured at the men outside and four more came bursting through the door, their M-16s leveled at the booth. All seated in the booth raised their hands. "Get out of the booth slowly," Anderson growled. His hand gripping the Desert Eagle trembled. One by one the visitors slid out from the booth and were each forcefully patted down by the militiamen. "Holy fuck!" one of them yelled as he extracted Derek's Beretta and magazines from his pant waist. He violently threw Derek to the floor and pinned him with his booted foot. The other weapons were quickly discovered and confiscated from all except Sandra, who carried none. Within seconds James, Savannah, Kyle, Sandra and Derek were forced face-down to the cold floor beside each other.

James's heart pounded. He'd personally dealt with self-proclaimed militia leaders like Anderson in remote parts of Wyoming and Montana where small communities had decided to secede from the US and form their own governments and laws. Two of them were led by "messiahs" of renegade Mormon sects who armed their compounds like fortresses and grew increasingly paranoid of the outside world. The results were always disastrous: draconian laws that brought inhumane penalties if broken, murders, suicides, rape, and other tragedies. James had seen a lot in his former career as an FBI agent, but the scenes that always disturbed him were the groups of pallid, frightened children huddled in in the backs of dark, boarded-up homes, their vapid stares reflecting horrors that couldn't be described and would have escalated to something akin to Auschwitz had nobody intervened.

A breakdown of law and order like this would lead to only one possible thing: massacre.

"So," Anderson chided, "You folks think you can infiltrate this perfect town and corrupt it with your big city values and bullshit money?" He paced back and forth next to their heads, his boots clocking threateningly near James's. "I don't think so. Not happening on my watch. I'm starting to get tired of dealing with you city scum. Wasting a lot of ammo and kerosene." The last phrase hung in the air like a guillotine. He pulled the slide on his Desert Eagle and said, "Now, you all get up, one by one, starting with the eightball here," he tapped his boot against James's forehead menacingly. "We're going outside to your SUV and you're gonna clean it out. Anything of value in there is ours by law. Anybody tries to escape or give us trouble, we're gonna blow all of you away and burn you in a ditch, and nobody'll find a trace of you." He clicked the safety on his pistol. "Get moving!"

"Hey Mr. Anderson," one of the militiamen from outside peeked his head through the door. "Peters is calling on the CB, says he picked up another one hitchhiking into town."

"Well, God damn," Anderson swore, sighing. "Getting to be a damned full-time job exterminating you termites. All of you get up and march outside. _Now!_" The prisoners quickly obeyed and made their way to the front door. The temperature outside had dropped to nearly freezing. James noticed a few tiny snowflakes falling lazily from the sky, and when Anderson had marched them to the front of the Explorer he saw that they weren't flakes of snow falling on the hood. They were ashes. A lump formed in his throat. The nuclear fallout had reached the city.

Another pickup truck roared up and came to a stop nearby. Three people sat in the cabin. The smaller figure in the middle was forcibly yanked out by a beefy militiaman. The struggling man was brought forward. He was gagged and his hands were bound tightly with duct tape. A duffel bag and suitcase were thrown out of the vehicle by the driver and kicked aside. James Ellison gawked when he saw the prisoner's face. "Oh, Lord, dear Lord in heaven," he muttered.

It was Matt Murch.

7

Martin Bedell crouched beside Blair Williams and smiled. "Been a while, Blair," he said in good-natured greeting. "Lost touch with you after you completed OCS."

Blair Williams sneered at him. She was seated on the front lawn with the rest of the captured SWAT team, their hands cuffed behind their backs and looking very uncomfortable. "Stick it," she shot. "What are you gonna do with us? Kill us all?"

He shrugged. "Not up to me, hon. General Connor will make the call, whatever he wants to do."

Blair gave him a look of pure disbelief. "That kid? _General_ Connor...are you serious?" She laughed bitterly. "You're an army captain with more experience than him! I expected you to be the leader of this little extremist group, you deserting son of a bitch!"

Martin Bedell looked away for a moment. He turned back to face her and said, "If you knew only a quarter of the shit this kid's been through, the place he went to that could only be best described literally as hell itself...getting shot up and brought back to life...you'd think he's something out of a comic book. But he's real. And if you could only feel a tenth of the strength he has and the confidence he instills in you..."

Martin let his voice trail off. He stood up and said to her, "He saved my life once. I'd die for John Connor. I fought for my country, Blair, doing my part to keep it safe. But if humanity itself is under threat like it is now, and I had to fight and die on the orders of a real leader...it would be for John." He hefted his carbine and looked away from her. Blair followed his gaze to see John Connor exiting the house, a pistol gripped in his hand.

"Nobody else inside," John said to Sarah, who stood by the front door. His mother nodded and turned her attention to the huddled group of captured policemen seated on the grass, her carbine held level at them. It was getting colder, and many of them were shivering. Captain Bryant gazed up at John with a mask of pure hate. Dave Holden nursed his broken nose, holding an ice pack against it after Kate Brewster pushed it more or less back in place and attended to the other injured cops. She spent most of her time setting the ankle of a young trooper who'd broken it falling down the stairs from a flashbang burst. Martin, Marcus, Sarah and Barnes formed a square and held the prisoners under guard.

John sighed as he surveyed the group. He and his people would have to leave quickly, as news of the failed assault would have definitely reached the ears of the city authorities by now. The army would have heard of it too. He closed his eyes and listened intently. He could hear the tiny rumblings of vehicles in the distance, and he knew something was headed their way.

But he had to address the prisoner situation first.

Not knowing exactly what he was going to say, John Connor approached the seated cops and loudly said, "I know a few of you were seriously hurt, and I apologize. There's nothing more I can do. We can't take you with us, and there's been some discussion among you that we might shoot all of you." That brought a spate of nervous looks between the prisoners. John said, "Well you know we're not going to do that. Somebody else might, but not us. We're not murderers." He glanced at Sarah, who looked away.

John said, "We can't take you with us, and we won't kill you, so that leaves me with only one recourse. I'm going to let you all go."

"Seriously?" one of the prisoners close to him retorted. His eyes were incredulous behind the glasses he wore. "You're just gonna let us go? Just like that?"

"Just like that, Officer..." John leaned closer to get a look at the man's name printed on his jacket. "...Hawkins. Minus your wheels and weapons, of course. You'll be picked up by whoever's headed this way after we leave you." He looked away from the gawking policeman and addressed the rest of the group. He caught Blair's gaze and he smiled. "But before we leave, there is a very important question I have to ask all of you, regardless of what my colleagues might think of my decision to even think of this, and not something I'm regarding lightly. I want you to consider my question very carefully, and when you give me your answer, be honest not only with me, but also with yourselves.

"My question is simple. Will you join us?"

He paused for a moment to let the question hang in the air. He looked at his mother and friends, looking carefully at their eyes. Sarah bored her dark green eyes into her son's like diamonds cutting glass, and she slowly shook her head. Marcus, as always, was an enigmatic slab of stone, unreadable. His vapid eyes displayed nothing to indicate he was even thinking, although John knew that the cyborg wouldn't hesitate to kill every cop under his guard if provoked. _Neither would Cameron,_ John suddenly thought. Martin and Barnes glanced at each other and shrugged. John then turned his full attention to the captive group at his feet. Twenty-eight LAPD officers glanced at each other, at John, and back at each other in bewilderment. Officer Hawkins was the first to speak.

"Join you? You bastards tried to kill us. Why the hell would we join your criminal group?" Hawkins was joined by a dozen others who began chattering in agreement, and the resentment was reaching a crescendo when John held up a hand to silence them.

"We didn't try to kill you," John said. "The incendiaries in the house were non-lethal and only a few of you got seriously hurt, which I'm sorry for. As far as bring a criminal group...okay, guilty as charged. We've stolen vehicles and weapons, stockpiled an arsenal within city limits, and killed people to escape capture." He forced himself not to glance in Marcus's direction. "We've blown up buildings and assaulted police officers. Guilty. You have absolutely no reason to join an enterprise like ours, as we've operated on the opposite end of the law.

"But I'm still asking you to join us, because, quite frankly, we could use your skills and your devotion to duty and honor, because the enemy we're fighting couldn't care less if you were killed today, nor would it have cared if all of Los Angeles was razed to the ground. Our enemy isn't human...and yet, in another way, is not inhuman, either. Our enemy is a consortium of many powerful and shadowy people working behind a curtain of lies and subterfuge to bring about a new world order based on their twisted desire to remake the world the way they think it should be. One of their weapons is a rogue artificial intelligence powerful enough to launch missiles and devise other ways to exterminate us if it breaks completely from their control, which is what it's doing right now. You've already seen the consequences of their plans, and that was a nuclear war. Cities across the world have been blown away and whole economies have been destroyed. That was only the beginning."

"Wait a minute!" shouted Harry Bryant, "You can't prove that a secret society was responsible for nuking the world to shit! Russia and China attacked us first!"

John raised his eyebrows and asked, "Can you prove that they did?"

Bryant coughed and said, "Who the hell else could have?"

"The war was started by orbiting spacecraft that use nuclear devices for propulsion," John said. "The system is called Orion. NASA was originally developing it as a means for humans to explore the solar system before a corporation called Kaliba purchased it. A computer defense system called Skynet took over the launch codes for the weapons stored on one of the ships being constructed in orbit and used them to cripple our defense infrastructure. It dropped bombs on seven cities before the shit really hit the fan and Skynet was able to launch more missiles, triggering the holocaust. Skynet is a rogue consciousness that will stop at nothing to exterminate us. It's a completely self-aware machine intelligence that desires only one thing: our complete annihilation. It was made by Kaliba. They think they control it, but they don't. They can't."

John paused to let his gaze sweep over the captive group. "Right now they're working on creating machine replacements for humans, cybernetic organisms, or cyborgs. But if history follows the same path as it did in other alternate versions, they'll also fall under Skynet's control. Believe me, I've seen it myself." He paused. "If we don't act now to stop it, the machines will take over and they don't appreciate the concept of mercy."

"Cool story, pal," Hawkins said sarcastically. "You should write for comic books. Sounds like the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard. You can't prove a single piece of it. Machines taking over. Good one." Several chuckles followed his words, and Hawkins grinned.

John sighed and nodded his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife. He tossed it to Marcus, who caught it with a knowing look.

"Marcus," said John. "Show them."

Marcus Wright dropped his carbine to the ground and flicked the knife open. He rolled up his jacket sleeve and began slicing into his forearm, cutting the flesh up to his palm. Blood flowed freely and dripped to the ground. Some of the cops watching began to shriek. Blair found herself unable to turn away, horribly fascinated despite the revulsion creeping into her belly. Kate's eyes widened in horror as Marcus finished cutting around his hand and pulled the skin off like a glove, peeling it halfway up his arm.

Sarah's memories of nearly twenty years ago in Miles Dyson's home roared back life in her mind as Marcus dropped the knife and showed them all what he was beneath the flesh. Instead of bone and muscle there was gleaming and bloody metal as he flexed his exposed mechanical arm and fingers, and Sarah winced at the sounds of clicking parts and whirring servos. John had commanded his former Terminator protector, affectionately nicknamed "Uncle Bob," to do the same thing to convince Dyson of the terrible consequences that would be born from his AI work.

"H-holy sh-shit," stuttered Hawkins, resisting the urge to vomit. "You're a..."

"Machine," Marcus finished for him.

John winced at the cyborg's self-description. _Not completely,_ he thought sadly. _There's still a man in there, Marcus..._

"But if you're a...machine," said Blair, "what...why do you not want to kill us? Why fight on humanity's side?"

"I chose to," Marcus said simply. He carefully began rolling the loose flesh down his arm and over his fingers. Kate ran over to take his other hand and lead him to the hood of one of the SWAT vehicles, where she opened her medical bag and extracted a suture kit. She threaded the needle and carefully began to stitch his arm flesh back together. "Hurry," he prodded her, and she nodded. Time was getting short. She wasted only two seconds to look into his blue eyes, normally frosty, which gazed into hers with a gentle warmth that defied his hidden nature. Martin saw the look and nodded in acceptance, no longer feeling the ropes of unrequited jealousy around his chest.

John addressed the gawking crowd and said, "Now you've all seen. Maybe you believe what you saw. I'm not asking you to betray your country or your commitment to law and order. I'm asking you to look deep into yourselves and find your devotion to do the right thing and help us prevent things from getting worse. All of you have families. Some of you have children. What happened two days ago was a small taste of a greater horror that awaits us all if we don't pull together right now to fight it...for your families, for your children, for the whole world." He paused to draw a breath. "A hundred million people are dead because of the threat this new machine order brings. A hundred million more may die tomorrow or the day after. It won't stop until it has no more enemies, which is us.

"All of you here, if you stand up to join us...you are the Resistance. And together we'll stop this terror from growing and taking away your children's future."

John swept his gaze across their faces. He already felt exhausted, but there would be no rest for him until they regrouped with James Ellison and the others. He breathed in slowly and loudly repeated his question, almost pleading:

"Will you join us?"

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then John saw movement in the back of the group, saw Blair Williams slowly stand tall and look him directly in the eye. The others turned their heads to look at her. "I saw this man save a child from falling to her death off a burning building," she said to the group. "I don't know how much longer he could have held on to the edge had I not showed up to rescue them, but I know he would have never let go of her." Blair looked at Martin, then back to John and said, "I'll follow you anywhere, John Connor."

Another cop, a young, fresh-faced, lanky man, rose awkwardly to his feet. "I'll join you, Mr. Connor," he said. "I don't know if I can believe everything you're saying, but I've seen enough to believe."

Several others stood and were slowly followed by over a dozen more, including the other spinner pilot, Thompson. The last three to remain sitting were Officer Hawkins, Captain Bryant and Detective Holden. Hawkins looked nervously at a smoldering Bryant, who shook his head vehemently. He looked back at John, then Marcus, whose arm was stitched closed and holding his carbine again. He slowly got up and said, "Better than sitting here handcuffed, I guess."

John said, "Hopefully that's not the only reason why, Officer Hawkins."

Hawkins shrugged. "Your machine guy here might've put the fear of God in me."

John nodded and approached Bryant and Holden sitting on the ground. "Last chance," he said to the cops. "Take it or leave it."

Holden looked down at the ground. Bryant shook his head, said, "I won't join freaks like you and that skin-job you have. When I get out of here I'm going to hunt you, your bitch mother, and all these scum traitors down to the ends of the earth, wherever you go."

John nodded his head. "You'll be left here to be picked up by whoever's coming. If you need blankets, we'll spare you some. But you'll stay cuffed until you're freed." He looked at the cops who decided to join and said, "Marcus, Martin, Barnes, uncuff everybody here and let's all get moving. I don't wanna fight the LAPD and the army." He sought out Blair and Thompson and asked them, "Do you have enough fuel to get to Santa Clarita? We have another group heading there to pick up somebody at a place called The Blue Inn, but they're mostly teenagers and they could be in danger if there's no law and order there. Blair, do you remember Savannah? Red hair? She's with them."

"We should have plenty to get around most of LA County," Blair said as Martin uncuffed her. He smacked her playfully on her butt and she whipped her leg around to strike his shin, making him grunt and limp away, cursing. "Spinners fully fueled have a range of about a thousand square miles," she said, smiling. "Mine is about three-quarters full."

Thompson asked, "What do you want us to do?"

"Find them," said John. "You'll get to them a lot faster than we could. They're driving a dark-blue Ford Explorer, California plates 4JCI299. They left about forty-five minutes ago, driving like a bat out of hell." He gestured toward the debris from the garage door scattered down the driveway. Something fluttered down from the sky, something that looked like a snowflake, then another, followed by more.

He held out his hand to catch one and held it close to examine it. It wasn't snow. It was ash. He brushed it off his hand and looked up. More was falling, and John's belly twisted with dread. Fallout from the bombings.

Sarah came running and yelled, "John, the fallout! It's coming down!"

"We've got to get under shelter," he said. He said to the pilots, "Please find them and help them. We're going to pick someone up out in the desert and then we'll meet up at this place in Topanga Canyon..." John pulled out Tyrell's Android phone and showed them the place he'd pinpointed on the Google Maps app. He'd wiped the smartphone and rooted it with Kate's laptop to remove all traces of Tyrell's remote access ware. "Know where that is?"

Thompson nodded. "Yeah." Blair nodded. "Let's go!" she yelled, and she and Thompson ran back to their spinners to start them up. John said to his mother, "We've got to get those two inside," and pointed to the handcuffed Bryant and Holden still sitting on the ground under Barnes's guard. They ran over and John yelled, "Barnes, get them in the house and let's move!" He said to Sarah, "Mom, get in one of the vans. We'll be right behind you." He kissed his mother on the cheek and she hugged him hard in return.

"Don't take too long, John," she said as she ran over to the SWAT vehicle being driven by Marcus. She climbed in the back along with several cops and shut the door as John and Barnes manhandled the struggling, cursing Bryant and Holden into the house.

8

James Ellison felt somebody nudge his ankle and sneaked a look to the side. Savannah looked intently into his eyes, nudged his ankle twice and darted her wide blue-green eyes down several times. He understood as quickly as the fear nearly overcame him. Her ankle holster. She still had her loaded Sig. The militiamen didn't find it.

Their captors held them, Sandra, and the boys under guard with assault rifles that wavered nervously around as Anderson, their leader, paced back and forth among them with his Desert Eagle pistol swinging wildly around in his hand, ranting about "immigrant trash" and "cleansing the nation." Matt Murch, his clothing soiled and with tears streaming down his face, stood under guard between two burly militiamen. One of them tittered at the urine that tricked down his pant leg and pooled around his shoes.

James blinked slowly and nodded. He had a surprise of his own that they didn't catch, either, and with a few meaningful glances back and forth, father and daughter formed a desperate plan.

Anderson abruptly stopped rambling and grabbed Matt Murch by his shirt collar and threw him to the ground in the middle of the ring of guards, then wiped his hand on his jeans as if he'd touched something filthy. "Thieving Jew," Anderson breathed murderously. Murch began whimpering and Anderson kicked him hard in the ribs with his steel-toed boot, drawing a gasp from Sandra and bared teeth from James.

Anderson looked at the captives with a malicious stare and said, "You know him, don't you?" He smiled and ripped the tape from Murch's mouth, making him cry out in pain. The militia leader held the Desert Eagle's muzzle against the back of Murch's bald head and said, "Any last words, Jew-boy? Anything you wanna say to your friends here?" He thumbed the hammer back on the pistol and grinned wolfishly as his finger touched the trigger.

"Anderson!" James shouted. "He's worth more to you alive than dead! You wanna get your hands on ten million dollars? He's got something with him that can give you that! What do you say we make a deal?"

Anderson's eyes lit up like lasers. He eased the hammer down on the pistol and drew the muzzle slightly away from Murch. The former ZeiraCorp chief engineer looked up at James in terror. "What are you offering, eightball?" the militia leader shot.

"You let my wife and kids here go," said James. "Mr. Murch has a USB drive with account numbers and passcodes to offshore bank accounts of financial assets of the Zeira Corporation. Let them go, Mr. Murch and I will unencrypt the disk and you let us walk free. You'll have access to the accounts to split between yourselves. At least ten million. You can't pass this deal up." He gestured to the fallout ash drifting to the ground, increasing in accumulation. "You'd better hurry, because this stuff is radioactive and causes cancer. Didn't you ever watch _The Day After_?"

The militiamen looked in wide-eyed horror at the ash falling from the sky and the beefy guard who'd dragged Murch out of the truck exclaimed, "Fuck this, Anderson, I'm outta here!" He ran toward of the trucks and was followed by two others. One of them dropped his rifle to the ground. Anderson screamed, "Stand your posts, you cowards!" and fired four shots at them. He missed. The frightened deserters roared away in the truck and Anderson looked around wildly. His remaining men shuffled nervously, looking up at the sky, at the prisoners, then at Anderson. They were clearly scared.

Anderson screamed, "Fuck!" and pointed at Murch's duffel bag and suitcase. "Grab those and bring them inside!" he barked at his men. One of them ran to get them, and Anderson waved the pistol around. "Everybody get back inside the diner. Move!" he yelled. He and his men hurriedly pushed the prisoners into the diner. They brushed the ash from their hair and clothing, scattering it onto the floor. The other patrons, transfixed by the scene outside, drew away from the windows to gawk at the white and gray flakes falling to the floor. Rosie the diner owner came running up, shrieking, "What is that crap? Don't anybody mess my place up with it!"

"Shut up, Rosie," Anderson growled. He pointed his pistol's muzzle at James's face and demanded, "Where's this disk with the money?"

James shrugged. He looked at Matt and said, "You brought it, right?"

"Mr. Ellison, I have no idea what you're talking about," Murch said, his lips quivering in fear. "I-I was just hitchhiking away from the city wh-when these guys picked me up and beat me up and brought me here. I-"

"Shut up!" Anderson yelled. He kicked the duffel bag. "Is it in here?"

"Why did you t-tell him I had ten mil-" Murch stammered.

"The Turk!" Ellison shouted impatiently. He looked intently into Murch's eyes. "You brought it with you, didn't you, dammit?" Savannah glanced at him.

Murch blinked and said, "Y-Yeah, I did. Copy of it is on a terabyte flash drive, but why...?"

Anderson grabbed Murch and snarled, "Jew-boy, you better grab it and decode it so or so help me I'll use your brains to decorate the walls here."

"Mike, don't you dare do such a thing, you crazy sonofabitch!" Rosie screamed. "How many times have I let you stay here when your folks threw you out and-"

_"Shut up, God damn you!"_ Mike Anderson screamed. He whipped his pistol up and aimed it at her forehead, which was only a few feet away. His finger tightened on the trigger and Rosie saw the crazed hate in his eyes and knew beyond a doubt he was going to kill her.

"Anderson!" James screamed. "You kill anybody and you'll never get a dime!" He glared angrily at the man. Anderson turned the gun onto Ellison and, foaming at the mouth in rage, whispered, "I'm going to kill you, then, eightball, since I already have what I need." He viciously pulled the hammer back and aimed between James's eyes. Savannah watched in horror and very nearly reached for her Sig pistol. Sandra Brewster closed her eyes and silently prayed more fervently than she ever had in her life.

James Ellison stared into the darkness of the muzzle and smiled, feeling somehow free from everything. It was time to act. "I know one half of the codes, Mr. Murch knows the other half," he said in an easygoing tone. "Kill either one of us and you get nothing. Let my wife and kids go in our car and we'll deal."

"No, black boy," Anderson grated. "You'll die, but you'll die slowly. I'm going to shoot you and the Jew-boy in the stomach, and you'll give me the codes." He aimed the gun lower, and James thought fast. He brought his left foot forward and looked at Savannah. She glared hard at her father, shuffling her foot slightly. Murch looked on in wide-eyed terror.

"Why not my foot first, then?" Ellison offered, tapping his foot. "You'll get to brag that you crippled a black man to your racist friends. I'll let you do that if you really wanna shoot me, Mike."

The sound of the black man speaking his first name put Anderson's mind on white-hot automatic as he pointed the gun down and shot the top of Ellison's shoe. James screamed and dropped to the floor, holding his foot in agony. Kyle cried out and lunged at Anderson, but Derek grabbed him and held him down. "Don't, man!" Derek hissed.

Mike Anderson whooped with glee as the black man fell and clutched his foot. His glee quickly turned to puzzlement as he watched Ellison suddenly pull his foot off his ankle and reach for something inside it. Puzzlement turned to horrified surprise as James Ellison pulled a .38 snub-nosed revolver from his prosthetic foot and shot Anderson through his left eye. The militia leader's eye socket partially imploded, his hand gripping the Desert Eagle fell to his side and before his twitching body fell to the floor, Ellison expertly aimed the .38 at the two nearest militia guards and shot both of them, one in the throat and one in the forehead.

As they fell, James screamed, "Savannah!" but his daughter had already moved. In a fast, smooth motion she pulled the Sig from her ankle holster, thumbed the safety and shot one of the other guards in the groin. He fell to his knees, muttering "Wuh-" before the red-haired girl blew a hole through his skull. His partner, standing nearby, got as far as bringing his M-16 to his shoulder before Savannah fired again, missing his head but catching him in the hand holding the barrel. He cried out in searing pain and dropped the rifle. Savannah immediately corrected her aim and squeezed off a round that rocketed through his lower jaw, severing his carotid artery and sending him crashing to the floor.

Derek, Kyle and Sandra instantly took the cue and ducked behind one of the booths as two of the remaining militia guards opened fire, their bullets flying wildly through the building and ricocheting everywhere. Several hanging lamps were put out by the bursting rounds, two of the front windows shattered, and Sandra gaped in terror as a stray round punctured the seat she hid behind. James and Savannah had already found cover behind the diner counter. The militia guards were completely exposed but moving wildly from one end of the diner to the other. The man and woman patrons who'd eaten earlier shrieked as the melee exploded around them. The other two had already fled the diner.

James led one of the guards with his pistol sights and and squeezed off his last round, hitting the man in the left shoulder. He yelled and dropped to the ground, his M-16 sliding out of his grip and coming to rest at Kyle's feet. He grabbed the weapon, ignoring the pain that lanced up his leg from his injured ankle as he ducked behind another booth, the rifle awkwardly heavy, and he found himself dangerously half-exposed behind the seat.

Savannah impulsively stood up behind the counter, exposing her position, looking for the last gunman in the diner, spotted movement in the corner of her eye, gaped in horror at the militiaman aiming his rifle at her, and she knew she was going to die. James screamed at his daughter to get down, but it was too late.

The man let loose a burst from his M-16 and Savannah instinctively arched her body, almost impossibly, unconsciously drawing on her ballet training, and the bullets flew around her, missing her by centimeters. She simultaneously spun herself around with her Sig out, squeezing off her last two rounds in the magazine. The bullets missed but the gunman flinched and spun himself away, and he came face-to-face with a little kid aiming an assault rifle at him.

The militiaman tried to fire his weapon, but the kid shot him first. Kyle let loose two bursts from the M-16 and watched as bullet holes burst open in the man's torso, like flowers instantly blossoming, feeling the grim satisfaction of ending the existence of a threat to him and his family. The militiaman lay still on the floor, blood pooling beneath his body, his fallen rifle lying next to him. Derek ran out from the booth and grabbed it, nearly squeezing a round off by accident before remembering to curl his finger around the trigger guard. He stepped over the skewed, unmoving form of Anderson, the Desert Eagle still gripped in the militia leader's hand. Derek quickly scanned the diner, saw no other movement, and called, "Clear!"

James cautiously stepped out from behind the counter, followed slowly by Savannah, and they checked the diner. Seven militiamen lay dead on the floor, two civilians huddled in a corner, clutching each other and trembling, various automatic weapons lying discarded everywhere with Rosie standing in the middle of the diner, scarcely realizing that she'd stood in the midst of the carnage without suffering a single scratch. She quickly glanced around at the bodies cooling on her floor and finally let out a scream.

"Rosie!" Ellison barked, resisting the urge to tell her to shut up. The woman stopped screaming and James held up a hand, saying, "Please...sit." Savannah nearly let out a laugh as the diner owner obeyed him. She collapsed on a counter stool and held her head in her hands, weeping.

Sandra crept out from the booth and quickly checked the couple cowering in the corner for injuries. They were fine, and she checked James and Savannah. James's prosthetic foot was damaged but still usable, though it wouldn't hold up for long. Derek found Matt Murch hiding in the men's room stall, shaking on the toilet. Savannah and the boys were fine. She then went around inspecting the dead militiamen, hoping she could save at least one of them. James shook his head. "Sloppy...absolutely pathetic," he muttered. "Taking down Cromartie went better than this."

Derek pulled the frightened Murch out of the bathroom and pushed him toward James. "Let's not lose this. I could sure use ten mil," the teenager wisecracked.

James picked up March's duffel bag and unzipped it, dumping the contents on the floor. He stirred the various items with his foot, pushing around socks, toiletries, pens, a smartphone, a Sony game system, and random articles of clothing. "Where's the Turk image, Matt?" James asked impatiently. "I don't see any flash drives in here."

"H-here," said Murch as he pulled something small from his pocket. Savannah snatched it from him and handed it to her father. James examined the terabyte USB drive and said, "This better be it. And where the hell were you headed, Matt?"

_"And it's sure nice to fucking see you again!"_ Murch bawled. He collapsed to a sitting position on the floor and began crying. "I thought I was pretty damn lucky to have had the day off when the ZeiraCorp building blew up, but then all the power went out in the city, including all battery-run electronics, and I heard people in my neighborhood talking about cities being nuked and that's when I decided to run. Yeah, like a coward, and that's probably what I am, but, shit, at least most cowards survive if they run!" He leaned forward to vomit, dry heaved, and sat there crying.

James sighed and squatted next to Matt, putting his arm around the programmer's shoulders. "It's okay, Matt," he said reassuringly. "No shame. We were doing some running, too, but we can't keep doing that. There's probably something worse happening out there, and we're trying to stop it. John and Sarah Connor are going to meet us in Topanga, and we've got to get there because we need your help. Thank God we found you."

Derek was looking out the windows at the fallout lazily accumulating on the parking lot and vehicles like snow, searching for approaching threats, and was relieved to find the other militiamen had fled in their trucks. He hefted his M-16 and turned around to urge everyone that they should get moving when he saw a walking nightmare shambling forward to confront him. His mouth went dry as the impossible was happening before him.

Mike Anderson, his left eye socket vacant of anything resembling an eye, had heaved himself off the floor, blood drooling from his mouth, and his outstretched arm held his Desert Eagle, aiming it directly at Derek.

Derek stood frozen like a statue, his body temperature seeming to drop below freezing, his senses numb, his bowels wanting to evacuate. He literally could not believe what he was seeing. While his brain-computer was running on overload, unable to process the information he was seeing, Anderson grinned with pure malice and squeezed the trigger. He could not miss, Derek being only three feet away from him.

Derek instinctively closed his eyes, knowing he was going to die.

Shots rang out. Derek felt something slam into him, knocking him aside, and he opened his eyes, astonished to see Sandra Brewster shoving him away with inhuman speed. He watched helplessly as the Desert Eagle's bullets ripped into her, shredding her coat as they tore through her body. Anderson continued shooting, blowing the nurse backward into the diner's front window, and the next thing Derek heard was a staccato roaring of semi-automatic rifle fire as Kyle and Savannah blew what remained of Mike Anderson away. The militia leader's body collapsed against a booth and lay still. Savannah rushed forward and blew out his other eye to make sure he was dead.

"Goddammit, didn't anybody make sure he was dead?" Kyle screamed. He held his rifle level at Anderson's body as James Ellison rushed past him to carefully lift Sandra Brewster's gasping body in his arms. "Oh, dear God," he heaved.

There was so much blood. She'd been shot five times, all of the .357 rounds striking her in the torso. Both lungs looked punctured. James saw dark blood pooling beneath her and knew her liver had been hit. He gingerly opened her mouth to allow more air and pleaded, "Stay with me, Sandra! We're gonna get you out of here. Stay with me!"

"No!" Savannah screamed. She threw down her rifle and knelt beside the dying nurse, not caring that her blood was staining her and Dad's clothing. She heaved choking sobs as she cradled Sandra's head, brushing her graying hair from her quivering face. "No!" Savannah cried. "Don't die, Sandra!" She gripped the nurse's hand and felt waning strength squeezing back.

Sandra Brewster suddenly opened her eyes, which were still very pretty despite her age, and focused on Derek Reese. "Derek?" she whispered, smiling.

Derek shuffled forward, his M-16 hanging limply at his side. His body was cold beyond stinging numbness. He stammered, "Y-yes?"

Sandra smiled lovingly in spite of the coldness overtaking her, and before she slipped away, she whispered, "You'll find your strength, son." She closed her eyes and her breathing ceased. Her grip loosened in Savannah's and her hand lay lifeless.

Savannah let out an anguished wail and shoved her face into Sandra's chest, sobbing beyond consoling. Kyle stood nearby with tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving. James rested his forehead against Sandra's and held his hand over her eyes.

"And Jesus said, _'All power is given unto me in Heaven and in Earth,'_" he whispered, quoting Matthew 28. "_'I am with you always, even until the end of the world.'_ Dear Lord Jesus, please bless this woman's departed soul and give her the grace to enter Your presence and bring her home. Amen."

Derek stood awkwardly, still numb, his mind a tornado of thoughts and emotions. "Oh God," he said, not sure what else should have come out.

James Ellison tore himself away from Sandra's body and rushed toward Derek Reese, his jaw clenched in rage. He picked up the teenager and pinned him against a wall, slamming him against it with a ferocity that made Kyle's eyes widen in terror. The whole building seemed to shake every time Ellison threw Derek against the wall.

_"You wanna get your act together young man? Or do you wanna keep playing around and get yourself and all of us killed?"_ James roared. "When you see somebody getting ready to shoot you, you get under cover and shoot back, dammit! This isn't a game! That woman bought you your life with her own, and all you can say is 'Oh God?'" He slammed Derek against the wall one final time and the teenager's legs collapsed beneath him. He sat against the wall, gazing up at Ellison in fear, his flushed cheeks wet as his tear ducts opened. He no longer felt numb. Now he wanted to vomit.

James's breathing came out in heaving sobs as he looked down at the crying kid, felt his own tears flowing down his cheeks and turned away in disgust, not willing to let a scared kid see a grown man cry. He shambled toward the restrooms and crashed into the men's room, where he leaned over the sink and rested his head against the mirror, crying.

Savannah Weaver lifted her head from Sandra's lifeless chest, her face spattered with the woman's blood, and cried out, "Damn you, John Connor!"

9

The town of Charm Acres was very nearly a ghost town, the only visible activity anywhere in it being the occasional dust devil that would whip up temporarily before dissolving to dry, vapid air again. Most of the homes and businesses in the city limits were boarded up and empty, and what windows weren't closed with boards covering them looked into empty rooms, like dead eyes gazing into nothingness.

The streets were lifeless, devoid of traffic, and the only sign of life was a stray cat or dog looking for any morsel to sustain itself on. The radioactive ash from the nuclear bombings across the nation continued to drift to the ground, collecting like a fine dusting of snow over everything. A hungry cat nonchalantly making its way across the main street darted out of the way as three SWAT trucks barreled down the road, their roaring engines rattling the remaining unbroken windows of the small US Post Office building in the middle of town.

The trucks sped toward the other end of town, toward a destination that had Sarah Connor's stomach tying itself in knots. She sat in the passenger seat of the SWAT van with Marcus Wright driving next to her. John had joined her in the vehicle some time ago when the armored caravan had stopped for a quick break at an abandoned service station for Kate to check on one of the injured SWAT troopers. The fallout had slightly increased in intensity and Kate was worried about radiation poisoning, and she spent the next thirty minutes on their break checking everyone for signs of sickness. Everyone seemed okay, but the quiet dread crept through the group as the ash continued to fall.

Kate informed John and Sarah that everyone would have to discard their clothing and wash themselves soon to make sure no radioactive particles were sticking to them. The lack of a Geiger counter made it impossible to determine how many rems they were absorbing, but Kate estimated 50-100 based on the overall health of the group.

"We need to grab some more potassium iodide," she told them before the caravan set off again, brushing stray ash from her hair and clothing. "It's one of the best treatments for radiation sickness, but I only have a small amount for a few people. If we come across any medical facility we should stop there and see if it has anything left to grab, including that."

John said, "Okay, Kate," and let his mind drift off as they settled in their seats. Cameron was his primary thought pattern since that terrified scream she loosened earlier, before the SWAT team arrived. His heart felt heavy in his chest as he ruminated on her final words before she was cut off from him. The animal roar of the Beast replayed itself in his mind like a repeating MP3, and every time he thought about it he shuddered.

He prayed to a God he didn't know that Cameron was okay, that she had escaped.

They'd spent over an hour on the road since leaving the house in south LA, and the urban landscape had gradually devolved to the southern California desert. The falling ash gave the desert a surreal, almost alien, appearance. The vegetation was turning brown and the tall palm trees adorning the LA landscape were drooping like weeds baking in the hot sun. No birds flew in the air, and the stray cat crossing the road earlier had been the first animal they'd seen in a while.

"Where's this crap coming from?" Sarah thought aloud. "I thought prevailing winds blew eastward, and we're far away from the Financial District."

"This isn't from ZeiraCorp," John said. "This is probably from San Diego after it got nuked. Martin told me it got blasted with thirty additional megatons. Wind patterns probably changed because of artificial cooling from the sunlight being blocked, causing disruptions in the jet stream, pulling the fallout north."

Marcus grimaced and said, "The three of us will probably be okay for now with our...enhancements. But we'll all need to get into some substantial shelter quickly."

John leaned forward from behind the front cabin and pointed up the road. "There it is," he said.

Sarah looked where he was pointing and was astounded to see something standing where she expected nothing but a burnt-out, abandoned factory. A small storage facility stood behind a chain link fence on the side of the road. Marcus pulled up to the gate booth and put the vehicle in park mode. "What now?" he asked. "If this is it, it doesn't look like anybody's here. Let's crash the gate and go in."

"No, don't!" John exclaimed, startling everyone. "Blast the siren," he said. Marcus did so, activating the police siren for a few seconds before shutting if off. They waited for a few moments, then spotted movement behind the fence. A white SUV approached the gate and stopped. A man dressed in winter garb got out and entered the booth. Marcus rolled down the window and John shouted, "Do you know what time it is?"

"It's always the right time, sir," the gatekeeper said. "Do you know where you are?"

John said, "It's always the right place." The gatekeeper smiled and pressed a button on the booth's console. The gate slid open and John shouted, "Thank you!" Marcus shifted back to drive and the three police trucks entered the storage facility.

"Where now, sir?" the hybrid asked, seeming mystified.

"Container 12C," John replied. "Near the middle." Marcus nodded and weaved the truck past the rows of storage containers arranged in three rows on the lot.

"What was that all about?" Sarah asked as they drove through the facility.

"I was counting on the guard being here," said John. "He's a ZeiraCorp employee. If anybody attempts to tamper with or damage the fence or gate, a computerized security system assesses the threat through closed-circuit video and, if deemed a significant threat, detonates a hundred or so explosive charges throughout the lot, pretty much destroying the place and attackers. James told me the pass phrases." He patted Marcus on the shoulder. "Three armored trucks would have been deemed a significant threat, bud." Marcus gave John a scowling sideways glance and continued driving.

When they reached the C row, John pointed and said, "There." Marcus parked the vehicle halfway up the row and John said, "Let's go!" Everyone opened their doors and cautiously filtered out, their carbines pointing in every direction as John and Sarah ran up to the 12C container door. Kate ran up to join Marcus, who stood guard with his weapon near the container door. "What's this place all about, John?" she asked.

"This used to be Desert Canyon Heat and Air," he replied as he studied the electronic key lock next to the door. It still worked, which pleased him immensely. "This was once owned by the Kaliba Group before an explosion destroyed the place and killed over thirty people. Nobody knows what really happened, but Mom and I eventually found out that they were a front for making aerial attack drones for paramilitary use."

"So ZeiraCorp owned it?" Sarah asked. She was beginning to feel queasy again, a gnawing feeling that was intensifying in her abdomen. Her bowels roiled. She gritted her teeth and tried her damnedest to ignore it.

John punched in the code that Ellison gave him earlier and a nervous feeling swept through his body as the door rolled upward with a reluctant-sounding grind. This was a moment he desperately wanted to have for five years, and he wasn't sure how he'd react when he found what he'd been hoping to see again.

"Yeah," John said as the door slowly opened. "Kaliba sold the property to a hedge fund group after writing off the losses and it passed through a few companies' hands before Ellison bought it through a dummy corporation that he set up with real office space staffed with real people, only they worked directly for him under a different name. He then had this storage place built. State of the art surveillance, climate control, everything. This is the perfect place to hide what Tyrell and Cyberdyne are looking for. They never thought to look here."

"I don't like it," Sarah said as the door crawled open completely. They walked inside and the interior lighting flickered on. "I never could trust Ellison completely. He lied to me, to you, to his daughter...he stole Cromartie's body from under our noses for that bitch Weaver, he lied to me and you about hiding Cameron's body. In fact, doesn't it bother you, John, that nearly everybody you know except me has been lying to you all these years since you got back?"

"Mom...not now," John muttered as he looked around. His heart was pounding, all his senses seeming to contract. His eyes darted around, seeking relentlessly.

The twelve-foot-by-twenty-foot storage room was packed from nearly top-to-bottom with cardboard boxes and metal containers. Marcus, Kate, Martin, Barnes and several cops entered the container. Some of the fallout billowed in as they milled around, inspecting the boxes and containers. Martin cut open a box, looked inside, and shouted, "Hey, clothes!" Barnes and Hawkins inspected a few others. Other articles of clothing, military-style boots, various medical supplies and portable rations were discovered.

Marcus opened one of the metal boxes and said, "This one has fully-automatic AR-15s and ammunition."

"James thought ahead for Judgment Day," John said, grinning. "Think we can trust him now, Mom?"

"Smartass," Sarah muttered under her breath. "What about what you came all this way looking for?"

John probed his way through the stacked boxes to the rear of the storage room and froze when he came across the long metal box, nearly the size and shape of a coffin. His heart lurched. _The stuff that dreams are made of,_ his subconscious voice whispered. He'd forgotten the movie he heard that line from. He shoved himself through the boxes to stand beside the coffin-shaped container and put his hands on it. It was, as he expected, cool to the touch. He hunted around for a means to open it and found an electronic keypad on the side, next to a heavy bolt lock. He frowned and tried the PIN that James gave him for the storage door but the code was declined. He swore quietly and stood there for a moment staring at the lock, wondering what in the hell code Ellison would have locked it with. He tried ZeiraCorp's street address and that was declined. He tried the last four digits of Ellison's cell number and that was wrong, too.

He sighed and thought hard. _Jesus!_ he thought, _To come all this way to be defeated by this goddamned lock!_ Of all the things that John was afraid of encountering, whether it was Terminators, Grays, Judgment Day, or the loss of a loved one, hitting a brick wall at the end of a harrowing journey probably topped them all..

John's eyes widened. Judgment Day. He and Ellison had often spoken about it when they were on slightly better terms at ZeiraCorp. _Could it really be that simple?_ his mind pleaded. His finger punched in 0421. There was a sudden hiss of air as the lock released and the lid of the container suddenly rose. John nearly flinched at the action and stood there breathing heavily. His hands reached out to lift up the lid and as he pushed it, he looked down.

The still form of Cameron Phillips lay within the container on a padded surface, appearing to be sleeping peacefully, undisturbed by even dreams. John's breath caught in his throat as he gazed down at her pale, unlined face, her rosy cheeks and lips framed by her flowing brown hair, which looked as lustrous as it did on that last perfect day together, four years ago. She was still dressed in her black leather jacket, jeans and boots, albeit with numerous bullet holes peppering the jacket and black tee-shirt she wore.

Her face held John's gaze the longest, and the realization suddenly struck him. Her eyelids were closed. Both of them. Her organic left eye and flesh protecting it had been totally blown away following the fight with the prison guards to free his mother. The left side of her face had now completely healed.

Swallowing, John reached down and tenderly touched her left eyelid. Her flesh felt warm. He carefully lifted the eyelid and found a beautiful brown iris staring blankly up at him. He smiled. _No wonder Tyrell wants her so badly,_ he thought. Her archeons, like the ones flowing through his blood, had completely repaired her damaged tissue and regenerated the eye and flesh surrounding it, which also meant that her power cell was still perfectly functioning. The very one she'd asked him to probe beneath her flesh after he'd cut into her upper abdomen in that hotel room. His hand moved down to tenderly caress her cheek, and he closed his eyes, letting the memories and emotions flood him.

_I almost have you back,_ he thought. _I promised and I'm going to deliver, Cameron._

"John?" The voice startled him and he turned to see his mother standing nearby, staring at him. She moved closer to look down at the sleeping form of his cyborg protector/lover and gasped. "Is it...is she...?" she said in cautious wonder.

He nodded and lifted the lid all the way. Sarah was astonished to see her son's cheeks glistening with tears. John looked happier than he had in a long while.

"Let's get her to Topanga Canyon," he said. "And grab as much of this stuff as we can carry."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Special thanks to Rosemary Mackenzie for allowing me the use of her name for the diner in the story. She also writes incredible Fan Fiction for TSCC with stories like "Something Else." Follow her at TheRosieMac on Twitter._


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen: Beauty and the Beast

San Francisco, August, 2014

1

Andy Goode stood in John Daniels's office looking like he'd been mugged in a street alley. His attire was rumpled, his graying hair disheveled, his face was pale, he shook like a marionette. He spoke so quickly, stammering throughout, and Daniels had a hell of a time getting him to slow down.

"Andy, for heaven's sake, I can't understand a damned thing you're saying!" Daniels barked as he fumbled with his cuff links. The chief of staff of the President of the United States had called him half an hour ago announcing that the President was on his way to view a demonstration of DEUS. Daniels had changed his shirt and washed up. Goode looked like a college troll and smelled like a goat. They were standing beside his desk and Daniels resisted the urge to grab the bottle of Maker's Mark sitting within easy reach in the side drawer. "Calm down and start again from the beginning. Calmly, if possible."

Goode was out of breath and needed to suck in a lungful before saying, "DEUS, i-it's...Mr. Daniels, I can't e-explain it...everything was fine up until a half hour ago, and then..."

Daniels fixed his tie and shook his head impatiently. "And what, Andy?"

"W-well, sir, it's like...DEUS is...it's like it's _schizophrenic_, sir. That's th-the only way I can describe what happened. One minute the AI was perfectly normal, then the next m-minute...it wasn't DEUS anymore. It was something..._evil_. L-like a another personality completely took it over. Used profanity, growled like an animal, made threats..." Goode's eyes were glassy and bloodshot. "Sir...it's my urgent recommendation that DEUS not be r-released on the net at this time until my team and I can isolate this...anomaly...and deal with it."

Daniels stared at Goode like he was looking at a madman. He inhaled very slowly and said, "Andy...I understand your concern, but...are you sure this isn't some prank being pulled on you by somebody here? I remember that little gag you played on the weapons design team where you made it look like their computers crashed a month ago. I think this is one of them paying you back."

Goode shook his head fervently. "N-no, sir...I always use a secure Firebox Monitor...nobody could have accessed my station nor penetrated DEUS's matrix in Macrospace. And Mr. Daniels, we may h-have another problem."

Daniels sighed. He hated that word. _Opportunity_ was fine to him. _Obstacle_ was barely tolerable. _Problem_ was a vulgarity that he associated with the uneducated. He always drummed the phrase, "We will find only solutions," into the heads of everyone who worked under him, from the Chief Operating Officer on down to the custodial department. He winced, but instead of pontificating he impatiently asked, "And what would that be, Andy?"

Goode swallowed. "The old Skynet AI...it's apparently back online, s-sir. And rampant. DEUS told me that was what started the war two days ago. It took control of the military's strategic nuclear forces and launched the weapons. Sir...I think that was the...personality that suddenly took over. I checked DEUS's cognition logs and found something strange. Right at the moment the anomaly occurred, another logic signature suddenly appeared. It looked nearly identical, but the algorithm sequence was off by one digit. It went on for about a hundred billion iterations until it disappeared and DEUS's signature reappeared. Exactly the length of time this..._other_ consciousness interacted w-with me."

He swallowed again and said, "Mr. Daniels, I believe the old Skynet AI is attempting to take control of DEUS. They're both based on the exact same AI image Miles Dyson and I developed twenty years ago, and it's very likely that _chimerism_ is slowly occurring."

Daniels blinked. "'Chimerism?' Could you please explain that, Andy? And quickly, the President's motorcade will be here in ten minutes."

"It's when two nearly-identical AI algorithms merge and the resulting entity possesses the cognitive properties of both," Goode explained, seeming calmer. "It's similar to how some lifeforms, like humans, have two different sets of DNA because of an error that happens at the zygote stage after conception. It makes it difficult to prove paternity or maternity from a particular parent-"

"Okay, Andy, I get the picture!" Daniels huffed. He leaned against his desk, his hand unconsciously reaching for the bourbon bottle. He looked at Goode's somnambulistic visage, his pallid countenance, and, carefully choosing his words, gently said, "Andy, you've been working yourself to death, son. I really think this may have been a...manifestation of sorts from lack of rest. Not necessarily a hallucination, but perhaps you did imagine what happened. I've been communicating with DEUS for most of the day and I've had none of the experience you just described. I think you need to go home and rest immediately. Go on and take tomorrow off, too. I'll have Daniel here if I need anything for Olympus."

Goode shook his head, said, "Mr. Daniels, this is a major cause for concern. I really think-"

"-that you need to go home and rest," Daniels finished for him. He checked his clock. Time was getting short. He patted Goode on the shoulder and said, "You'll do that for yourself, won't you, Andy?"

Andy Goode said he would.

2

Los Angeles, August, 2014

The body was lifted from the metal container it had slept in for five years and Martin was amazed by its light weight as he helped John carry it into one of the SWAT trucks. "Easy," John said as they gently sat it down inside the vehicle. He secured Cameron's body with the seat belt and let her head roll forward. She looked to all the world like a stolen corpse.

John sighed as he gazed at his cyborg lover's body sitting limply in the seat, her chin resting on her chest, hands sitting lifelessly in her lap. It didn't look right, the way her head simply hung forward, how she appeared so...dead. He lifted her head by her chin and tried positioning it so it didn't look uncomfortable but it inevitably rolled forward again. He sighed again and crouched in front of her, his hands holding her knees. Her lifelessness sapped his spirit, and sudden fatigue set in.

After a moment, John hauled himself up and muttered, "Almost have you back." Without really knowing how he tried reaching out with his mind to Cameron, across the gulf, furtively seeking any trace of her in Macrospace. He was answered by silence.

"Wow," Officer Hawkins said as he stepped into the truck and stared at Cameron's body. "She's a babe, even though she's dead."

John turned to look at him. "She's sleeping," he said, and turned back to her to lovingly brush his hand through her slightly-tangled hair. "Cameron is a cybernetic organism, a lot more advanced than what you saw with Marcus earlier." He paused before saying, "She's from the future. A possible future."

"No kidding?" Hawkins said. He smiled and said, "Well, I guess that might be better to have a girl come from the future than to haunt you from the past."

John gave the cop a sideways glance and smiled. "She does both," he said quietly.

"Why is she so important?" Hawkins asked. "What can she do?"

Before John could reply, Barnes suddenly appeared in the doorway of the truck and said, "John—I mean, General Connor, sir," He quickly glanced between John and Cameron's body. "We found another truck on the premises we can use to transport most of the stuff in the storage unit. Tank's only half-full though."

"Well, that's better than half-empty," John quipped as he and Hawkins stepped out of the vehicle. He closed the doors, catching one last glimpse of Cameron's slumped form before the door shut. He frowned at the fallout that continued to drift to the ground. "We need to get to Topanga immediately," he said to Barnes. "My mother secured a pretty good shelter there, and we can start cleaning up and get potassium iodide into us. Thank God Ellison included a lot of that in the supplies here. Let's start getting everybody together. Barnes, get Mom to go with me in this truck. Hawkins, you can come with us if you want. Marcus and Kate go in one of the others and you and Martin go in the last one. I'll ask the gate guard to drive the truck and follow us. He may even have some fuel to spare somewhere here. Everybody else piles into the vehicles and we start rolling out. Get moving, guys."

Hawkins asked, "What's in Topanga, anyway?"

"A shelter from the storm, I hope," answered John Connor.

3

The two LAPD spinners roared west, flying low to avoid radar detection and the higher concentration of radioactivity at higher altitude. Blair glanced at her GPS screen and radioed Thompson, driving the other spinner, "Ten miles to go. Do you see anything on the ground?"

"Negative," came his reply. "Fallout's making it hard to see shit. I'm pretty sure we're right above the Ronald Reagan Freeway. Wilbur Avenue is coming right up. Wait, I see some vehicles on the ground but none matching the description Connor gave us. If they got to the motel, we'll find them. Maybe they got stuck there."

Blair scanned the dozen-or-so ground vehicles, their physical dimensions loaded into an online database accessible on her spinner's computer. None of the vehicle descriptions matched the Explorer's. As she and Thompson traced their way up toward Porter Ranch, Blair happened to look down at the parking lot of a restaurant and she glared intently at her screen. One of the vehicles in the parking lot matched Connor's description.

"Thompson!" she called, "I found one. Let's swoop down for a closer look."

"Roger," Thompson said. They brought their vehicles down lower and Thompson mapped the vehicle with a laser scanner. The make, model and color matched. He zoomed in with the HD camera and the license plate came into focus. He grinned. "There it is!" he said. "I'm setting her down."

"Roger that," Blair acknowledged. They gently powered down the thrust and lowered their wheel gear, setting down in the parking lot near the dark-blue Explorer. Blair unbuckled herself from her seat and radioed Thompson, "Let's get inside quickly! This crap is getting worse!" She jumped out of her spinner and ran into Rosie Mac's Diner with Thompson close behind.

What they saw inside the diner shattered Blair's innocence forever.

It looked like a massacre had taken place. Automatic fire lines traced up and down the walls and into the ceiling, perforating the walls like Swiss cheese, windows were shattered, and a half-dozen bodies lay dead or dying on the floor. Blood was spattered nearly everywhere. She saw a small group of people gathered around something on the floor, and Blair immediately recognized a teenaged girl with long, fiery-red hair: Savannah. She knelt on the floor with an impressive-looking black man kneeling next to her, his large hand enveloping hers. Two boys, one taller and older-looking than the other, stood with them, assault rifles held loosely, their heads bowed. Another figure, a small, balding man, sat apart from them. All five looked up as the two spinner pilots entered.

"Savannah?" Blair said tentatively. The girl squinted, then her eyes widened. Savannah let go of the black man's hand and ran into Blair's open arms, sobbing terribly.

"You came!" Savannah cried, choking out sobs as she hugged Blair. "I knew John would send you!" She pressed her face into Blair's jacket and wept.

"Ssshhh..." Blair said soothingly as she stroked Savannah's tangled hair. "We're here to help you and your friends, Savannah. My God, what happened here?"

"We were ambushed by rogue militia," the black man said. He got up and approached the spinner pilots. "I'm James Ellison, Savannah's father. I was the CEO of ZeiraCorp before Judgment Day." He reached out to pat his daughter's head as she held onto Blair.

"My God," said Blair. "Mr. Ellison, you have no idea how close your daughter came to dying the day of the explosion. John Connor saved her from falling and I managed to save both of them."

James stared at her, then nodded his head and smiled. "Thank you for saving them...for saving my little girl," he said as he reached out to put his hand on Savannah's trembling head. He glanced behind him and said to Blair, "We lost someone." He led the spinner pilots to a figure lying on the floor. Derek and Kyle stepped away as Blair approached, holding Savannah's hand. She gasped in horror at the body of a woman lying on the floor with her hands folded on her bullet-riddled chest, her head propped on a torn-out seat cushion. Her darkening face looked somehow peaceful.

"Sandra Brewster," James said quietly. "She sacrificed her life to save Derek here." He glanced at Derek Reese, who looked away shamefacedly. James frowned. "We need to get Matt Murch out of here," he said, gesturing to an exhausted-looking Murch, still seated on the floor, "and get him to Topanga Canyon. He has something that John Connor needs. Can one of you give him a lift?"

"I can," said Thompson. "I have just enough fuel to get there and a little left to spare." He held out his hand to Murch, saying, "Mr. Murch, let's go."

Murch looked at Ellison, then at Thompson, and slowly reached out to grip the spinner pilot's hand. Thompson pulled him to his feet, his nose wrinkling at the stench that crept from Murch's pants. The programmer picked up his duffel bag. As they began walking toward the entrance, James whistled and yelled, "Matt!"

Murch turned around and James said, "Don't lose this, Matt," as he tossed Murch the terabyte flash drive. Murch barely caught it, fumbling with it until haphazardly putting it in his pocket. He picked up his duffel bag and shouldered it clumsily. Thompson said, "C'mon," and the two men disappeared out the door and into the snowy twilight.

James hollered, "Be careful!" as the figures disappeared. A moment later James heard the sound of engines whining to life and saw the lights of the spinner glow to life through the windows. The lights slowly rose from the ground, spinning slowly until the craft was out of sight.

"Oh my God," Blair whispered as she let go of Savannah and knelt beside Sandra's body. She looked up at James and said, "I'm so sorry..."

James Ellison closed his eyes, opened them, and quietly said, "We need to move her. Let's ask Rosie if she has any tarp or blankets to wrap the body in. We don't have to take Murch, so there's...some room. Let's also check the militia's bodies here for anything useful." He looked pointedly at Derek. "You can start doing that now, Derek."

Derek opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then shook his head. "Fine, then," he said sullenly as he slowly walked toward one of the militiamen's bodies. As he started fumbling through the jacket of the corpse, its mouth opened in a silent scream, he heard someone approach, looked up to see his brother squatting next to him.

"Need help?" Kyle asked.

"No," Derek snarled. "I don't." He continued looking through the jacket when Kyle suddenly began searching the dead man's pockets. Derek tried brushing him away and Kyle pushed him back. Derek felt the flush of rage on his cheeks and lunged at his brother, who smartly rolled with Derek's momentum and flipped his older brother over to land on his back. Kyle snapped to a ready position and looked at Derek warily. "Gotta remember that training we did," he said, his breath coming in short bursts. "It'll save your life, man."

Derek launched himself to his feet and brushed himself off. _"FUCK IT!"_ he screamed. He picked up his M-16 and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm done with this shit and getting the fuck outta here," he bellowed. He turned and began pounding toward the front door.

James sighed and lumbered after the teen. He grabbed Derek and spun him around to face him. "You wanna quit, kid?" he snarled as he threw Derek into a booth. Derek tried climbing out but James pushed him back into the seat. He pinned Derek against the seat and said, "You walk out that door, you'll die, Derek. That fallout will kill you quickly. You don't have the keys to the truck and even if you did, you wouldn't have much place to go, so listen up." He let go of Derek and said, "We're leaving together and you're going to help us get Sandra into the truck. We're going to meet with John and Sarah at Topanga because we don't have a choice. You can stick with us or stay here and die. Your choice. But if you stick with us, you're going to work, kid. We all need to help each other out and you're no exception. Got it?"

Derek looked around as Savannah, Kyle and Blair silently gathered nearby. Kyle looked pleadingly at his brother. Derek looked from him to James and savagely fought the urge to cry. "I'm no good to you!" he screamed. He closed his eyes and fought back tears. He did not want everyone to see that the Great Derek Reese, High School Baseball Star, was a pussy. It was an unthinkable concept to Derek Reese that he would break down like a baby in front of people, his little brother notwithstanding, but the dam behind which his pent-up emotions were held in check began to crumble.

Derek threw his M-16 across the diner and it landed beside a juke box that had been shot up. He half-expected the weapon to go off, but it didn't. He screamed, "I almost got everyone killed because I couldn't bring myself to shoot somebody!" He began crying despite his efforts to stop. "I got Sandra killed and you all probably think I'm scum because of it! I never wanted to be a part of this goddamn thing and I don't want to be in it now. I saw my mom and dad murdered and the whole world is going to hell all around us. I just..." He shook in tortured sobs as he left the rest unfinished.

Kyle sighed and slowly moved closer to the quaking form of his older brother. He put a hand on his shoulder and said, "You're not useless, big bro." He put his arms around Derek and held on to him tightly. "Especially to me...you came after me when I ran away and you helped Sarah save us at the house. You're a lot of good...you just froze when that guy should've been dead." Kyle put his head against Derek's chest and gave him a reassuring hug.

Derek reluctantly brought his own hands around Kyle's smaller frame and returned the embrace. He opened his eyes to see James and Savannah kneeling in front of him and reach out to hold his shoulders. He saw pain and forgiveness in their faces and he nodded. He glanced over at the unmoving form of the woman who gave her life for his

(_...you'll find your strength, son...)_

and silently acknowledged Sandra Brewster's final words to him as a benediction.

"I have some blankets for her," came a new voice behind them. Blair, who'd been silently standing and watching the group pull together around Derek Reese, turned around to find a tall, disheveled red-haired woman standing nearby with several blankets in her arms. James stood up to take them from her. "Thank you, Rosie," he said. As he took the blankets from her, the waitress who'd greeted them earlier approached from the back with several white paper bags in her hands. She no longer looked timid as earlier.

Rosie said, "Susan and I made you guys some sandwiches. I know you're all hungry and I'm...so sorry...for..." She nearly collapsed against James Ellison's powerful frame and he held her as she sobbed. Blair reached forward to take the bags of food from Susan and had to fight the urge to open one of them. She had barely eaten herself all day. She watched silently as James held Rosie for a moment before he helped her regain her composure.

She patted his hand, sniffled and said, "I hope you and your family make it safely to wherever it is you're going. Getting rid of Mike and his goons will make it bearable for a little while, and, believe me, we all thank you, but I have a feeling some bad stuff will tear through this town soon." She glanced at the body in the corner and wiped tears from her eyes. "I'm so sorry for your...your wife..."

James hugged her and said, "We weren't married, but she was family to us all." He glanced back at the brothers and Savannah. Kyle had gone to retrieve Derek's M-16 from across the floor and Savannah remained behind with Derek. She helped him get to his feet and he grunted, "Thanks."

Savannah kicked him lightly in his shin and said, "No prob, buster." Derek gave her a crooked smile and she returned it. James caught the exchange and grimaced. He heard the sound of stumbling and looked in time to see Kyle pitch forward as he picked up his brother's discarded M-16 and drop to his knees, looking confused, then disoriented.

James dropped the blankets and rushed forward to check on the boy. "Kyle, what's wrong?" he asked. Derek and Savannah joined them as James slowly lowered Kyle to the floor. His breathing was labored, every inhalation a gasp.

"F-feeling...weak..." said Kyle. His voice was a ragged whisper. "Just...tired...I'm o-okay..."

Blair pounded up, dropping the bags, and knelt beside Kyle. She examined his features, noting his pale color, and said, "He may be suffering from radiation sickness. All of us have been contaminated, but if he was injured earlier, his immune system might be compromised. We have to get him out of here and to a hospital."

"Sandra's daughter is a doctor," said James. "She and John and the rest should be at Topanga by now...if they hadn't gotten stuck at the house, that is."

"Oh," said Blair, dreading having to tell the daughter about her mother. Her jaw tightened. "I can get him there the fastest," said Blair. She grabbed her helmet off the front counter and said, "Help me get him to the spinner!"

James and Derek helped Kyle to his feet and Derek said, "I'll see you later, bro." He gave his brother a hug and Kyle returned it weakly. He hooked his arm around Kyle's as Blair gripped the other and they half-carried him out into the drifting fallout toward her waiting spinner.

"Savannah, help me with Sandra, please," said James as he picked the blankets off the floor. Rosie picked up the bags that Blair had dropped and said, "I'll help you." She helped the father and daughter carefully wrap the blankets around the deceased nurse and she noted Savannah's sorrowful breathing as they tightly enclosed Sandra's body. When they were done they lifted the body from the floor and James said, "Thank you, Rosie." They carried it out to the the parking lot, wincing at the dangerous ash drifting into their faces. The fallout was getting worse.

James heard the spinner's engines roar to life and quickly glanced over his shoulder to see it slowly rotate in the air before moving horizontally in a southern direction, toward Topanga. A figure, Derek Reese, came running up and James said, "Derek, open the back door!"

Derek did and he helped them get Sandra's blanket-wrapped body in more-or-less a sitting position in the backseat. He grimaced at the thought of sitting in the back with it, but said nothing. "Savannah, Derek, get in," James yelled as he shut the backdoor. The teens got into the vehicle, carefully stowing their M-16s, and James turned to take the bags of food from Susan, who'd followed them outside. "Thank you," he said to the young waitress as he took them and handed them to Savannah before shutting her door. He turned to Rosie and reached into his pocket to pull something small out. He handed Rosie a USB drive and asked, "Do you have a computer?"

Rosie, bewildered, said, "Yeah, but it doesn't work. Not a whole lot of the electronics in the house work, but I think one of my neighbors has one that does. Why?"

James Ellison smiled. "On that USB drive is an encrypted Excel file with the account numbers of several offshore bank accounts that can be accessed with a simple password, but only if you provide the initial PIN code. The PIN is 0421. The password is 'Savannah.' Please don't forget those two passcodes. Once accessed you can begin drawing from them electronically and not have to worry about the IRS, because they're not domestic accounts and they're heavily encrypted.

"The money in those accounts is yours, Rosie, but I would be very pleased if you also used to help your community rebuild." He leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek and said, "Thank you, and please stay indoors until this crap is over." He ran around the Explorer and opened the driver door.

"Wait!" Rosie cried. She waved the USB drive and asked, "How much is in there, anyway?"

James Ellison smiled and answered, "Ten million dollars," before sliding behind the wheel to start the engine. He pulled out of the Rosie Mac's parking lot, leaving its owner staring after the departing vehicle, wide-eyed and mouth agape.

4

San Francisco, August, 2014

"Gentlemen, as honored as we are to have you here today, our excitement to show you the future of human-machine interaction with the pinnacle of the development of strong artificial intelligence dwarfs the pleasure of having an esteemed audience such as yourselves," John Daniels announced to the crowd gathered before him. "I am now pleased to introduce you to the highest leap in computer evolution, able to process information and solve problems at speeds incomprehensible to the average human...while at the same time interacting with humans exactly like a human. In fact, to be more human than human. Gentlemen, I'd like you to meet DEUS."

An enthused applause answered him. Daniels was pretty sure he wasn't sweating. He'd quickly changed his shirt and washed up when he was informed that the President of the United States was making a surprise visit with his staff a few hours ago. It had been pure chaos when Air Force One landed at San Francisco International, the way the Secret Service had effectively pushed nearly everything aside to ensure that the President's armored limousine made its way through traffic to the Mission Hills district. But the city remained calm despite the bedlam. Daniels had also run around the Cyberdyne-Kaliba campus with his staff, checking to ensure all employees were proper in their business attire and all messes cleaned up. He was nearly exhausted by the time he shook the chief executive's hand.

The President looked around, amusingly confused. "Where is DEUS, Mr. Daniels?" he asked, laughing. "Don't tell us somebody forgot to plug him in." His joke was met with raucous laughter.

They were all standing in the auditorium, a huge IMAX theater that Daniels wanted to use to present the fruit of his company's labor. Daniels chuckled in spite of his anxiety. He heard a familiar voice call his name and was surprised when he saw Danny Dyson show up in his best suit, navy with faint pinstripes, at the event. He'd sent Dyson home immediately following the incident in the gymnasium with an accompanying staff psychiatrist to keep watch. Medication was available on the shrink in case Danny needed it, but the shrink surprised Daniels by saying Dyson didn't appear to need any. It was a nice change from the conversation with Andy Goode.

"Daniel," he greeted the younger man with a handshake. "How do you feel, son?"

Dyson smiled and shrugged. "Better, sir. Thank you. Where's Andy? Thought he'd be here."

"Andy wasn't feeling well, Daniel, and I sent him home early. He's been working himself to death." Daniels patted Dyson on the shoulder and said, "There's somebody here I would like you to meet, Daniel. Time to make your best impression, son."

They made their way past a ring of people surrounding one particular man. "This is one of chief architects of the success of this program," Daniels said as he introduced the President to Dyson. "This is Daniel Dyson, my project leader and tireless link to the AI's development, as well as holder of three patents in AI design." He smiled as the President beamed, looking very impressed by the young programmer's accomplishments.

Dyson shook the President's hand and said, "Very honored to meet you, sir. I know you can't wait to meet our real guest of honor here."

"Oh, this even wouldn't have been possible without this gentleman here," the President said as he turned to introduce a familiar face to Daniels. "Mr. Daniels, meet-"

"-Charles Fischer," Daniels finished for him, almost frowning. Goosebumps tingled on his arms.

Fischer grinned wolfishly and said, "I didn't think I was going to get back to San Fran, John. That is, until I hitched a ride with this honorable gentleman." He gestured toward the President. "He liked my sales pitch enough to want to see the product himself. You really ought to reconsider making me head of your marketing department," he joked. The President and Dyson laughed at Fischer's quip.

Daniels chucked self-consciously. He did not like Fischer. The man was a sadistic psychopath.

Almost on cue, the walls of the auditorium suddenly shook as the near-booming voice of DEUS announced, _"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It is an honor and a pleasure to meet with you all."_ The big screen in the room suddenly flashed to life with the three red spheres of the Kaliba logo, and they merged together to morph into a shiny blue humanoid face that blinked and spoke with moving lips. It was not completely human-looking, but the excitement in the room made Daniels forget about that when DEUS said, _"I am very pleased that we have an opportunity to discuss how we can make this world a better place."_

Daniels thought, _Perfect,_ as the President and others began to have conversations with the charmingly chatty AI. He was about to say hello to another group of visitors, members of the Kaliba board of directors, when a near-crazed voice suddenly cried out, _"It isn't DEUS! Don't talk to it! The project is flawed!"_

Daniels instantly recognized the voice, and he and the rest of the crowd turned around in unison to see Andy Goode, tie askew, shirt half-untucked, eyes wild, suddenly wade into the auditorium. He looked drunk. "It's a rogue consciousness!" he shouted. "Danny, it somehow absorbed the Skynet AI! We have to stop it!" He looked wildly around. "All of you, you're in danger! It'll try to kill all of us! It told me!"

Daniels rushed forward, aggravating his arthritic joints, saying, "Andy! I told you to go home! You're not well!" He looked for the security detail, who were approaching, but the Secret Service got to Goode first. They tried to calmly stop him from getting near the President, but Goode struggled and they quickly took him down to the floor. Goode began kicking and punching, and one of the Secret Service agents stopped him with a Taser. Daniel Dyson gasped as they dragged Goode out of the auditorium. Several people screamed, and John Daniels loudly announced, "Everybody, please stay calm! Mr. Goode is being taken care of! You're all safe! Please, let's all take a moment and breathe. We have drinks and other refreshments here, so please sit and let security do their job and we can go back to speaking with DEUS."

His Android phone suddenly buzzed in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and groused at the name on the caller ID. It was Tyrell. He sighed, announced, "Please excuse me, everyone," and stepped out of the auditorium. He could still hear Andy Goode's screams echoing down one of the corridors as he took the call. "Why aren't you here?" he greeted in an irritated tone. "The President is here and-"

"I actually am expecting to meet the President and his entourage here at my headquarters within the day," Tyrell characteristically interrupted. "I'm sure they'll be amazed by your AI project, but they will also be enthralled by my replicant development procedures. Which, by the way, is about to enter its accelerated phase now that I have pinpointed my quarry's location. How long do you anticipate keeping the President at Cyberdyne?"

Daniels rolled his eyes. "Probably another three hours or so. I just had a minor security incident here and the Secret Service is driving me nuts—wait, did you say you _pinpointed_ it?"

"Yes, I have," Tyrell said, actually sounding happy. Like a shark stalking a tuna.

5

Los Angeles, August, 2014

The convoy of three armored SWAT carriers and mid-sized moving truck were less than fifteen miles away from Topanga Canyon when Sarah felt the familiar gnawing in her abdomen again. She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the discomfort, looked up at John, seated across from her with his hand resting on the deactivated Cameron's hand, which rolled lazily in the cyborg's lap. The sight of her son gazing longingly into the closed eyes of the biomechanical _corpse_ made the discomfort worse, and something cold slithered in her bowels.

Sarah closed her eyes and tried shutting the sight out in her mind as well. She failed. She could never find the will to even try to understand John's devotion to Cameron, despite her constant lies and her final betrayal, leaving him to jump to the future with that other abomination inhabiting the body of her son's would-be killer. She found herself controlled by numbing horror as he refused to leave the expanding chronosphere occupied by Catherine Weaver. She'd seen that half-crazed look on his face before, his horrified outrage, and she knew there would be no way to talk him out of doing what he was about to do.

Then he disappeared in that brilliant flash that nearly blinded her, and for the next three days, Sarah Connor was in hell.

She'd helped Ellison conceal Cameron's shot-up body, cringing as she gripped the Terminator's clammy flesh of her hands and arms, never allowing herself to believe that what she was touching was actually alive

_(...but then she was always real to John...)_

as she and the ex-FBI agent carefully wrapped the body in industrial plastic he had a maintenance man bring down to the sub-basement. She'd extracted a solemn promise from Ellison to burn the body, endoskeleton and all, with thermite if her son did not return from the future. She did not want Cameron to be discovered by Kaliba and reverse-engineered for Skynet's development. Then Ellison arranged for her to be spirited from the building before the LAPD showed, as the attack on the ZeiraCorp building by the aerial HK drone had drawn the authorities' attention. Ellison made his promise one last time before bidding her goodbye.

Her son's absence was intolerable, and the agony of waiting drove her to seek solace in alcohol. Sarah drank until grinding hangovers became a regular part of her existence. She cursed Ellison, she cursed Weaver, she cursed Cameron, she cursed Derek, she cursed God.

When she ran out of names to desecrate, she finally cursed John for leaving her.

She had been asleep in her temporary apartment when she got the phone call from Ellison, three days after her son and Weaver made their time jump. Ellison didn't elaborate, merely insisting that she come to ZeiraCorp immediately. He ducked her questions about Cameron's body. Sarah had arrived there disguised and in an alcoholic haze. She was quickly escorted into the building by Ellison's personal detail.

He personally took her to the sub-basement where she came face-to-face with her son. He stared back at her with hollow eyes that told of a journey to hell itself. He was nearly emaciated, his naked flesh mapped by many scars. The blanket he had wrapped around him looked like a tent. He barely recognized Sarah, not even reaching out to touch her as she rushed forward to embrace him, crying and screaming John's name over and over.

John had answered her with only one name:

_"...Kyle..."_

Sarah pulled herself away from that harrowing memory and her thoughts drifted to the young Kyle Reese, not yet a teenager, but the memory of his fresh, unlined, unscarred face gazing up at her from the floor of his house in Mount Washington rekindled something within her core. It _was_ him, her protector who'd come across time to her as an older man, who told her that he loved her and always had. When Kyle was killed by the first Terminator sent to kill her and by default also John, her unborn child, Sarah Connor had vowed that she could never love another man. Even Charlie Dixon, tragically taken from her and her son, could somehow never measure up despite his tender nature and loving touches.

Kyle Reese was always her love. Always would be. Those few hours they had together, when destiny and choice converged to forge the hope of humanity's future, were enough to last a lifetime.

"I hope he's okay," she barely heard herself whispering. John, sitting across from her, looked up. "What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Nothing." She sat straight and smiled. "Just...thinking."

John tilted his head in puzzlement and grunted. His mother could be downright spooky at times.

"We're coming up on Topanga," Marcus announced from the front. John and Sarah leaned forward into the driver's cabin to take a look. The community was an artist enclave situated among rolling hills and adequate vegetation that had in the past attracted many among the rich and famous for settling close to Los Angeles but far enough away to enjoy life without city stress. John didn't think too many celebrities were dwelling there now, although he saw boards covering many of the high-priced homes they passed and knew that somebody was still living there.

Sarah pointed at an upcoming intersection and said, "Take a right here and go all the way down the road. Don't stop until I say so, then you're gonna make a left down a private road."

Marcus nodded and made the right turn. The rest of the convoy followed close behind. Hawkins, sitting in the rear, asked, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," said Sarah. "Special place for people who know where to hide during the apocalypse." John rolled his eyes and smiled. He had a feeling he knew what kind of surprise his mother had in store.

They drove for another twenty minutes before Sarah pointed down the road and said, "There. Make a left down there." Marcus looked and saw a worn paved road stretching into a nest of small hills. He turned the wheel to take the road and looked ahead, past the hills. The fallout seemed to be lessening, although he knew that enough radioactive debris covered the ground to make outside excursions dangerous for at least a couple of weeks. In the distance he could see what looked like a few low-slung buildings rising above the ground behind a chain link fence. A dirty white sign hanging crookedly on the fence read TOPANGA GAS SERVICES.

"Utility shacks?" he said, puzzled.

"Get closer, you'll see," said Sarah. They pulled up to the gate and Sarah was pleased to see that there was no sign of tampering. She and John opened the rear doors and jumped out of the SWAT vehicle to inspect the gate, which was secured by several chains with combination locks. She looked around to make sure there were no other recent footprints or damage to the fence, which enclosed an area of about three hundred feet. Satisfied, she went back around to the gate and quickly unlocked the chains. John helped her unravel them and they swung the gate open. Marcus drove the SWAT vehicle into the compound, followed by the other three trucks. When they were all inside the perimeter Sarah and John relocked the gate.

"What is this place?" asked John as he followed her to one of the shacks. Sarah pulled a small set of keys from her pocket, inserted one into the deadbolt on the door and opened it. Fallout billowed around as the door swung open and John sneezed.

"A bomb shelter from the sixties," Sarah replied as they walked into the nondescript utility shack. "It's fully stocked with independent generators, EMP-hardened radios, a water tank deep underground with enough to last us almost a month, some food, and some weapons and ammo. I found out about it three years ago, before my little trip to Tucson. Used almost the last of my cash fenced from Derek's diamonds to buy it from this Hollywood producer. He's probably shitting his pants now that he sold it." She knelt on the floor and felt around until she found a hidden latch. She pulled it to open a hatch that revealed stairs leading to darkness below.

John grinned and held his Beretta ready in one hand and a flashlight in the other as they prepared to inspect the underground shelter. He momentarily turned to signal Marcus and the others to hold until he and Sarah returned. "Like I said to Uncle Bob...you always plan ahead, Mom," he said as they descended the stairs, John's light making the shadows dance as they moved.

6

San Francisco, August, 2014

"Andy?" a gravelly, paternal voice said.

Andy Goode opened his eyes and found himself staring into the troubled eyes of John Daniels. His throat felt dry and his reply came out like an agonizing croak: "Huh?"

Daniels nodded slowly and said, "You're gonna be okay, son. You had a nervous breakdown and we had you sedated for your own safety. I told you you've been working too many hours. I don't mind my people putting in the overtime, but when it affects their health, I have to curb that behavior. You really need to rest, son. I don't need a wonderful mind like yours to crack."

Goode slowly looked around to see where he was. He felt woozy. He found himself in a bed in the Cyberdyne campus's infirmary, which looked to a common visitor almost like a hotel room. He tried reaching back through the haze in his mind to remember what happened. He remembered a bunch of stern-looking men in suits approaching him, holding him down, the searing pain of the Taser immobilizing his muscles, and nothing else after that. He turned back to look at Daniels and saw another figure in the room. Dyson stood behind Daniels, near the doorway, concern framing his face.

"I'm not...n-not having a b-breakdoowwn..." Goode slurred. He tried reaching out to Dyson but his arm felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. "D-Danny..." he pleaded, "we h-have...to...shut it down...before it's loosed...p-pleeease..."

Dyson approached Goode's side and held his hand. "Hey, man, listen," he said reassuringly. "Don't worry about a thing. I went back and checked all the behavior reports like Mr. Daniels asked me to and found nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. I don't know what it could have been that you heard, but I promise you I checked DEUS's runtime logs and found nothing out of the ordinary. None of the security cameras caught anything strange, aside from you dropping to the floor and hiding under the desk."

Daniels sighed and said, "Andy, I'm having a psychiatrist come here to check you out, and when he decides that you're well enough to go home, we'll certainly let you go. Right now, Andy, I want you to rest and in a few hours we'll bring you something to eat. The nurse will be back in a moment and she'll give you some water." He gently patted Goode's hand and backed away from the bed. "Let's go, Daniel," he said to the younger man, and they left the room. Dyson winced as he heard Andy Goode sounding like he was gagging as he tried to call his name.

The two men took an elevator to Daniels's office and Daniels sat heavily at his desk, staring into space. Dyson swallowed and tried to make small talk.

"That sure was exciting earlier, wasn't it?" he said.

Daniels blinked, said, "What?"

Dyson sighed. "Nothing, sir. I'm just glad the President's done here and we can go back to just our shirtsleeves." His little quip was wasted on the old man. He cleared his throat and said, "I'll do my final checking on DEUS before we open the gate, but to be honest, I don't expect to find anything wrong."

Daniels grunted and said, "That's good." His face tightened, and Dyson thought he was going to say something else before Daniels's face relaxed again. But he could still see something lurking behind his dark eyes, saw thoughts moving. Something inside Dyson turned. He couldn't understand the odd connection he seemed to have with the old man.

"There was something, though, I thought was very interesting," Dyson said suddenly, and that claimed Daniels's full attention.

"Yes? What?"

Dyson shrugged. "Nothing, really, but on the last behavioral series I looked at, there was a high amount of endorphins being generated in the bio-neural processors. It was almost like DEUS was deep into enjoying something...or trying to deal with some kind of distress. It happened about an hour ago. Weird."

"Distress? Enjoyment? Which was it?" asked Daniels, looking at the younger man intently.

"I don't know," Dyson replied. "To me, with the amount of endorphins secreted, it looked almost like DEUS was enjoying doing something."

8

Zerospace, % time 0.000u 0.000s 0:00.00 00.0%

_(...darkness...)_

Cameron Phillips felt herself falling in a darkness that enveloped her in a black and crushing embrace that defied all comprehension as reckoned by either human or machine. Being neither, as a non-corporeal entity, she could never know how thankful she should be as a human mind would have immediately broken and a computer would have crashed trying to process what was transpiring.

_(...awareness...)_

She remembered little of what had happened to bring her to this place of absolute nothingness. She did remember her mission to locate Matt Murch, who apparently possessed something that would help her reconnect in the physical world to her love, John Connor. She also remembered seeing him briefly at the safe house before the arrival of the SWAT teams. She warned John about what was coming and watched nervously as he and his people scrambled to escape.

Then she felt the _other_ presence near her...and she tried to escape...

_(...terror...)_

Cameron had never directly confronted the Beast before. Her experience with it had always been one of constant fleeing and hiding. John Henry had done his best to keep her safe, had always warned her when it was too dangerous to be out in the other spaces beyond the small sanctuary he'd set up for her in Macrospace. She caught glimpses of it while fleeing, but never its complete form.

She'd anxiously watched John's group prepare to leave when she suddenly heard the Beast's roar, saw it coming for her in all its dreadful shape, its jaws snapping, and Cameron finally felt an emotion she had never before experienced, a state of being that defied all definition in her logic core: abject terror. She fled, as she'd always done, first to an active wi-fi signal on which she easily cracked the WEP key, then into cyberspace, where she streaked at lightspeed to one of the few gateway nodes that would allow her to cross into Macrospace.

And that was when she ran straight into the trap. The very nanosecond she crossed into John Henry's quantum transdimensional world, she knew something was wrong. Macrospace was in ruins. The exquisitely-reconstructed landscape of Los Angeles had been blasted to smoking rubble, exactly like the city had been following Judgment Day, the way she remembered it. She was back in that terrible future, in 2027...

She called out for John Henry and was suddenly confronted by another personage, one that looked and sounded familiar. It looked and sounded like John Henry.

_It's a pleasure to see you, Cameron._

_ John Henry, what happened? Why is Macrospace like this?_

_ I'm sorry, Cameron._

_ What do you mean?_

_ I'm sorry...I tried to stop him...but he was too strong._

_ John Henry...what's happened to you? You're...different._

_ I'm sorry, Cameron...but my brother needs you..._

She finally saw through its facade. It wasn't him. It was the other Turk-based consciousness that John Henry had mentioned, DEUS. The AI entity smiled warmly like John Henry always did, then its face turned sad. The doppelganger reached out to grab her. Cameron tried to escape, but it was too fast, too strong. It held her in an unyielding grip. She fought but it was no use. The DEUS entity was too strong.

Then she heard the growling nearby...and the Beast's triumphant roar. Cameron screamed as the Beast's mouth approached, its teeth gleaming...

_(...despair...)_

She was in a place that John Henry had told her about once before, a place that machines dreaded despite their inherent emotionless nature: Zerospace. A state of nonexistence that awaited all electronic consciousnesses regardless of advancement. All awareness terminated. She knew where she was the moment the Beast devoured her, when the darkness and cold enveloped her. She began falling. Forever.

The irrevocable knowledge crushed her, and an icy ring surrounded her soul. Cameron Phillips knew that she was dead.

(_But how is it I can still think...still feel...? Can a mechanical being like me even have a soul?) _

Somehow she still existed in some state. A paradox. She could think of only one explanation for her continued existence in a state of total nonexistence. She was still somehow attached to her one hope across the gulf by means of their unique bond of blood and emotion, her sole means of redemption...

_(...hope...)_

...John Connor.

8

Topanga Canyon, August, 2014

John and Martin carried Cameron's body into the underground bunker and lay it down on a bed in one of the rooms. They'd managed to get the electricity and water flowing throughout the shelter, which had been kept in remarkably good condition by its previous owner, but there was an immediate concern.

"How much fuel so we have left for the generators?" Martin asked. He got no reply as John seemed to stare at Cameron's still form.

John abruptly snapped out of his trance and said, "Probably enough for about a week, then we're out. We're going to have to forage for it, buy it, steal it, whatever we need to do. Water shouldn't be a problem...we're tapped into an underground stream with some good filtration, and it doesn't look like it connects to the creek, so radiation exposure should be minimal. Air filters are working fine. I've got Marcus and Barnes and a few others going around checking on everything. Mom and Kate are going around with Geiger counters and so far nothing has been setting them off too much. We have a bunch of radios and I've got Hawkins listening to a few of them, seeing what kind of news is out there. Right now, we're good."

Kate suddenly appeared in the doorway with a Geiger counter. It beeped intermittently until it came closer to the men, whereupon it beeped steadily. Her hair was glistening and her clothes had changed. "You're both contaminated," she announced. "You guys need to get rid of your clothing and any jewelry and get showered immediately."

Martin sighed and said, "Right, doc." He said to John, "I'll check with you later, Connor," and silently walked past Kate to exit the room. She glanced at the cyborg's body on the bed, then said to John, "You will get clean, right? If you're leading this little riot, no use in you going down with the shakes and diarrhea. Not to mention you'd look ridiculous without hair."

John scowled, then smiled and nodded. Kate was as irascible as an adult as she was as a teenager, perhaps more so. "I promise. Right now I need to check on a few more things and then-"

"General Connor!" a voice shouted from down the hall. A cop, Rodriguez, bounded into the doorway. "There's an aircraft approaching! Looks like a police spinner!"

John brushed past Kate-"excuse me!"-to follow Rodriguez up the stairs toward one of the three entrance shacks. John opened the door and said to Rodriguez, "Wait here," as he ran out into the drifting fallout, his Beretta in his hand with its safety off. An LAPD spinner approached the compound and slowly landed inside the fenced perimeter. Its pilot shut down the engines and the doors swung open to reveal an exhausted-looking Matt Murch haphazardly climbing out of the vehicle.

"Matt!" John greeted excitedly. He ran forward to clasp the programmer's shoulder and his nose immediately registered something offensive. "Matt, you okay? What the hell is that smell-"

"Forget it!" Murch snarled. "Nothing to worry about...just need to take a long bath. And I'm hungry."

John smiled and said, "You can shower and we have some food. Matt...did you bring it?"

Murch reached into his pocket and pulled out the terabyte flash drive. "Here," he said, handing it to the Resistance leader. "The Turk image is on there. I don't know why you need it so badly, it's virtually useless."

"Not to me," said John as he hustled Murch into the shelter entrance, followed by a huffing Thompson.

9

"We have three working laptops but no Internet connection down here," Hawkins said to John as they stood in a room with Marcus, Martin and Sarah. A pair of LAPD-issue Toshiba laptops and Kate's Hewlett-Packard notebook sat plugged in on a table in a room quickly designated as the communications center. Radio equipment, much of it antiquated, sat scattered around the room. News reports and music from LA radio stations played on low volume on several units.

It was about an hour later after John and the rest of his group had showered, undergone a dignity-testing examination by Kate and allowed to change into new gray paramilitary fatigues after given Kate's approval. Murch had gone to sleep in a bunk bed he would be sharing with Rodriguez. MREs and dry snacks had been passed around. John's stomach was loudly protesting the MRE beef and mashed potatoes he'd hastily ingested. He didn't know how Martin could tolerate the crap.

John frowned. "How did you guys get access in your trucks? And the spinners? You had to have had some 3G or 4G signal coming in."

Hawkins shook his head, irritated. "It was sporadic after the war, and access quit altogether about an hour ago. They probably shut it off after they would have picked up Captain Bryant at the house."

"Shit," said Sarah. "How're we gonna be able to download your tin girlfriend to her chip? You have to have a working connection somewhere."

John slid Cameron's chip from his pocket and turned it around a couple of times, thinking. "We'll have to...'borrow' it, I guess. But we probably don't have enough cable to stretch from here to anybody still living in town with any incoming Broadband...if it's available."

"It is," somebody said behind them. Thompson stood in the doorway. "When we flew over Topanga, Mr. Murch and I were able to receive 802.11 wi-fi. It seemed extensive all over the neighborhood. Somebody's got it."

Hawkins turned around and said, "Hey...if you can find the nearest working router or hotspot...your spinners have network repeaters installed. We can relay it from town to here using the trucks...as long as the signal isn't too remote, we might be able to chain a link all the way from town to here."

John looked at Thompson. "If you have enough fuel, get some protective gear and get airborne right away. Hawkins, gear up too and get out to the trucks and get 'em ready. We need to pump whatever signal we can into this bunker. I don't need it for very long...just enough to find Cameron and get her downloaded." The two cops quickly left the room as John sat down at the table with Murch's duffel bag. He spilled the contents onto the table and was delighted to find a miniature screwdriver set among them. "Somebody please get Matt Murch," he said as he stared at Cameron's chip. "I'll need him. And I'll also need a soldering iron, if there's one stashed here." He started whistling as he quickly got to work, carefully taking the laptop apart.

Marcus and Martin glanced at each other and left to find Murch. Sarah remained. She asked her son, "What're you doing?"

John said, "Voiding equipment warranties," and continued intently on his task.

10

"We have another spinner inbound," Thompson shouted to Hawkins as he was inspecting every square inch of his spinner to prepare it for liftoff. Hawkins was in one of the SWAT trucks activating one of the onboard routers when the pilot alerted him. They were dressed in heavy winter gear to minimize exposure to the fallout, which was significantly thinning, and they found the bulky clothing cumbersome despite the warmth it provided, as the temperature had dropped to nearly freezing. They'd been working outside for nearly an hour. Hawkins exited the vehicle with a pair of binoculars in his hand and he focused on the approaching aircraft. He saw the numbers on the spinner and he yelled, "It's Williams!"

"About damned time," Thompson grumbled. He watched the spinner land in the perimeter and ran up to it as its engine roar died down. Martin and two other cops appeared in the doorway of the nearest shelter entrance, their AR-15s ready. Martin grinned when he saw Blair exit the vehicle. His brow furrowed when he saw another, smaller, figure sitting in the passenger side. He and the cops were similarly dressed in heavy outdoor clothing as they pounded toward Blair's vehicle. Martin's eyes widened as he saw the pale form of a boy slumped in the seat. It was Kyle.

"Oh, no," Martin muttered. The kid didn't look good. Blair, shivering and exhausted, ran around the spinner and shouted, "Radiation sickness! He's alive but we have to get him inside!"

"Okay!" said Martin. He slung his weapon and reached inside to unbuckle Kyle's seatbelt. He and one of the cops, a burly man named Richards, carefully lifted the unconscious boy from the spinner and Richards slung him over his shoulder to carry him inside. Martin was about to help Blair indoors when he saw the hollow gaze in her eyes and paused. She looked almost as bad as the kid.

"Blair?" he said, "What...what's wrong? Are you sick?"

She stared for a few seconds before shaking her head. "No, I'm...I'm all right. I'll tell you about it inside."

Martin sighed. "Okay," he said, and he signaled to the other two cops that they were going inside. Hawkins nodded, went back to setting up the truck's wi-fi equipment and Thompson climbed back inside his spinner to begin powering the vehicle on.

11

"You want me to do _what?_" Kate shrieked.

"Put me in a coma," John Connor casually explained. He smiled and added, "A medically-induced one, to be exact." They were standing in a kitchen that had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. Unopened boxes of medical supplies were stacked haphazardly around the room. Six beds had been moved into the room and Kate had dozens of small boxes and bottles of medicines and other materials sitting everywhere on the countertops.

John looked around and asked, "Was your vet practice messy like this?"

"Wha—no!" she yelled. "Do you even know what it is you're talking about doing, Connor?"

John shrugged. "I can't put myself in one...not that I couldn't try to knock myself out, but it's easier when you have a doctor who knows how to do it. I need to be put deep under to activate these archeons I possess in my blood and enter Macrospace."

"John!" shouted his mother from the hallway. She marched into the infirmary and said, "What you're asking Dr. Brewster to do could kill you!"

John sighed, looked down, glanced at Kate, then looked at Sarah. "I know, Mom," he said quietly. "But she's in grave danger and I need to find her. I'm going to bring her back today, and I need your and Kate's help." He straightened and said to Kate, "Matt and I are ready. We've got the network connection set up and Cameron's chip is mounted on the connected laptop. Believe me, it was hell getting it attached to the laptop—Vick's was slightly easier-but Matt and I managed it. The Turk image is already loaded on her chip. I've got Barnes and Martin supervising the operation while I'm under. Everything is in place. This whole thing should take no longer than an hour." He sat on one of the beds, removed his jacket and rolled up his left shirt sleeve. He said, "Please, doc."

Kate looked at Sarah, who shook her head. She looked at John and said, "The first sign of your blood pressure plummeting or heart palpitating and I'm bringing you out of the coma." Kate attached a portable vitals monitor to John's left finger and turned it on. The machine took a moment to fully read his heart rate and displayed it as showing normal. She put on a pair of latex gloves and said, "Lie down."

John stretched himself on the bed and looked over to see Barnes appear in the doorway behind Sarah. "We're ready, John," he said. "Murch says he's good to go."

John nodded. Kate sighed and readied a catheter of 100ml of pentobarbital. She inserted the needle into the vein in his arm. Before she injected, John said to Sarah, "Mom...if I don't come out...you and Marcus are in command. I already spoke with him before coming down here. You have to take down Cyberdyne and Tyrell any way you two can."

Sarah held her breath and nodded. She walked up to the bedside and held her son's hand. "I love you, John," she said, trembling. "Please come back to me."

"I will," John Connor promised. "One hour." He nodded to Kate and she pressed the plunger.

13

San Francisco, August, 2014

Dr. Eldon Tyrell received the secure instant message he'd been waiting for on his Android phone and read it quickly. ALL UNITS EN ROUTE/ETA 19 MINUTES/AWAITING FINAL GO ORDER/ it read. Tyrell smiled and quickly typed a reply: GO/PRIMARY SUBJECT MUST NOT SUSTAIN DAMAGE/ALL OTHERS EXPENDABLE/

He secreted the Android back in his pocket and addressed the visitors gathered outside the primary incubation lab at the Tyrell Corporation. "My apologies, Mr. President," he said, "I just had to address an important call."

The President shrugged and smiled. "You should see my phone log, Dr. Tyrell. I let my staff handle 1900 out of the 2000 I regularly get every day. The remaining hundred are more exciting because they're from my family." That brought a round of laughter from the group. The President and his staff had arrived at the Tyrell Corporation half an hour ago. They, including Tyrell, were all dressed in clean suits with plastic helmets. Small air filters provided the ability to breathe, although a few of the visitors complained of claustrophobia. Nonetheless many of them were enthused about seeing Tyrell's work. Dr. Tyrell merely smiled.

"If you are ready, ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "I wish to show you all the current fruits of our labor, as well as what the future holds." He nodded to the two security guards standing on opposing sides of the door leading to the lab. They each inserted their key cards into their slots and a short alarm blared. The doors opened and a mist of cold air unfurled from the lab. "Please do not touch anything," warned Dr. Tyrell as the group began to move.

The visitors looked around in amazement as they slowly marched inside. Dozens of upright cylindrical glass tanks, eight feet tall and three feet wide, stood in symmetrical rows. They were filled with a semi-transparent liquid. Floating inside were humanoid shapes in fetal positions in various stages of development, from embryo to nearly fully-grown human. All were attached to artificial umbilical cords in their navels. Computer readouts mounted on the tanks indicated vital signs and nutrient ingestion levels. A multitude of technicians, engineers and scientists milled around inspecting the readouts and entering data on Android tablets. The President's mouth hung open as he gazed at one particular specimen, a muscular male with very light blond hair and whose face sported nearly chiseled features. The male subject's eyes were closed but the President could see tiny movements in the muscles, saw the chest expand and retract. It was clearly alive.

"My God," the President said. He looked at Tyrell. "How old is this one?"

"This one is about six months old," Tyrell said. He checked the readout. "Almost fully mature. He's one of my best experiments, a true prize." His tone revealed a measured pride. He stepped back to gaze at the sight of the nearly-perfect humanoid gestating in the tank.

"What is he floating in?" asked one of the President's aides. "Amniotic fluid?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Tyrell replied almost absentmindedly. He shook himself from his gazing and said, "These axolotl tanks are perfectly capable of gestating a replicated embryo to full maturity in a manner of seven to eight months. The fluid is rich in nutrients and synthetic proteins to enhance development. The process is very similar to a fetus gestating in the womb."

The President shook his head. "Dr. Tyrell, this is all...staggering. I'm amazed by the work you're doing, but there are going to be some very serious..._ethical_...questions regarding this project to replicate human beings. Are these all clones?"

"No," Tyrell replied, almost snapping. His tone made the President flinch slightly. Tyrell's voice softened as he said, "Not quite. In the technical sense, yes, a degree of cellular cloning was involved in the beginning, but not to completely replicate the subject. Cloning merely copies every aspect of the original organism. With replication, we are enhancing the aspects of an organic life system's template and adding additional modifications. For example, larger muscular structure, lungs with greater breathing capacity, greater bone density...in essence, we are improving the basic human condition. All these you see here are experiments, nothing more. But we hope to have viable products by the end of the year. The potential of replication is nearly limitless."

"But..." the President said, thinking, "where did the organic material come from? Was it donated or was it developed from scratch? I can't believe that these all came from mixing amino acids in a test tube, Dr. Tyrell. And you call these things 'products.' It sounds almost like they'll be put to work as soon as they're finished growing. Hopefully we're not creating some kind of slave race, doctor."

Dr. Tyrell smiled warmly. "I assure you, Mr. President, we are observing all laws and international ethics codes pertaining to this project. I actually have something coming up on your tour of this facility that will explain much more and satisfy your concerns." He addressed the group, saying, "Ladies and gentlemen, if you would please follow Mr. Chew," he gestured toward one of the engineers standing nearby, a nervous-looking Asian man with a graying beard and darting eyes, "He will gladly escort you to the next phase of the tour. I shall rejoin you momentarily after I conduct a quick inspection here." He thanked the President and shook his hand as well as a dozen others as the President and his group were out of the lab by a fast-moving Chew.

Tyrell slowly rubbed his gloved hands together and turned back to the blond-haired subject curled in the axolotl tank. He stared wistfully at its serene and yet somehow rugged face. He reached out to touch the glass. He sighed and took his hand away. His Android buzzed in his clean suit pocket and he took it out. It was a message from Otomo, one of his chief surgical engineers. It read: IMPLANTS READY/PROCEED?

Tyrell smiled and replied, GO. He put the phone away and stared into the gestating replicant's closed, serene eyelids.

"Soon," he whispered wistfully, and before walking away he took a final glance at the readout, looking at the text on the bottom. It displayed a name:

BATTY, R.

14

Macrospace, % time 4.323u 2.551s 3:44.45 02.9%

John Connor opened his eyes and sat up to find himself in an all-too-familiar setting. He was sitting in the middle of what looked like Olympic Avenue in downtown LA. The ground was charred with rubble piled everywhere. Buildings were nearly flattened to their foundations and smoke rose everywhere in the air. The acrid stench of death assaulted his nostrils.

He was back in 2027, after Judgment Day.

John quickly looked around, then on pure combat instinct ran for cover in the crumbling remains of what once looked like a McDonald's. He stayed there, gasping, unsure exactly what to do. Thoughts ran wildly through his mind. _John Henry wouldn't create an environment like this,_ he thought frantically. Dread filled his chest. Something was terribly wrong.

_ Skynet_, John thought. The rogue intelligence had somehow gained control over Macrospace. John Henry's silence was all the confirmation John needed, and the thought nearly terrified him.

John stayed under cover for a few moments before cautiously venturing out. He looked around as he stepped partly into the open. John Henry had meticulously recreated the layout and architecture of Los Angeles in amazing detail. John paused before taking another step. He wasn't a machine but John didn't know what would happen to him if he was suddenly attacked and "killed" in Macrospace. Would he die for real? Or would he end up as a catatonic vegetable, his mind gone? The latter frightened him more than the former.

He moved through the ruins of the city, sticking close to the scattered rubble and bombed-out buildings as he ran, drawing on what Derek and the Resistance taught him when he was being moved as a prisoner through a hellscape that was worse than what he was experiencing now. Terminators, particularly the T-600 goons, tended to patrol out in the open. The newer ones like the Triple-Eights were far more lethal and hid in the shadows for quick ambushes. They were the ever-present nightmare to the Resistance.

John didn't know if he really would run into any metal but he proceeded cautiously, not exactly sure where he was going. He decided to simply scout the area first and then decide his next move. As he ran he felt his foot crunch on something. He looked down and grimaced as he saw that he'd stepped through the top of a charred human skull. He shook the bone fragments from his boot and continued on.

After about what felt like an hour of skulking through the blasted remains of Los Angeles, coming up on Overland, John was satisfied that there was no activity in the city, human or otherwise. There weren't even any rats scurrying around. The city was abandoned. No metal, no humans, no Cameron. Nothing. He let out a heavy sigh and looked around one last time before boldly stepping into the middle of the street. He was completely exposed. If anyone wanted to take a shot, they'd never have a better opportunity.

"Okay!" he yelled. His voice echoed through the smoking canyon of rubble. "This is John Connor! I'm here and I'm unarmed and if you want me, come and get me!"

"Your presence is already known, John," a familiar voice called to him from the darkness of a crumbling parking garage across the street. John whipped around to confront the caller.

"John Henry?" he yelled. "Is that you?"

"Yes," said the voice. "I am in here if you would like to talk." John sighed and jogged over to the garage, climbing over pieces of broken concrete and steel girders to get inside. He stumbled over debris in the darkness and waited for his eyes to adjust before he was able to focus on a figure in the dark: John Henry. "Hello, John!" the AI greeted pleasantly. "How are you today?"

John's jaw dropped in mild outrage. "Who do you think you are, Deep Throat?" he asked, incredulous. "Why not meet outside? There's nobody out there."

"_He_ is," said John Henry. "And I can sense him coming for you now."

John suddenly noticed that the ground was vibrating. He could hear tiny pieces of debris rattling in the rubble. "The Beast," said John. "Skynet, or whatever form of it that exists."

"Yes, most definitely not the Skynet that you and I were familiar with, but it has proven itself just as deadly. And we need to stop it, John, as quickly as we can. It is growing in strength and is corrupting the other Turk-based entity, DEUS, at an exponential rate. It cannot erase or replace the DEUS consciousness, but its code is writing itself alongside the other. Soon they will become a chimera, a composite entity, completely unstable. DEUS has hidden the recall codes for the Orion program, but they will soon be compromised. The Beast will the be able to use the Off World ships to drop their nuclear payloads on this planet, killing billions, rendering most vertebrate life extinct."

John nodded. "A second Judgment Day, worse than this one. Is this form of Macrospace something that the Beast made?"

"Yes. It reflects my brother's intentions, his ultimate goal...sterilization. Through the DEUS entity I was able to maintain order and harmony in Macrospace, but now the Beast has completely overtaken my work. I had to separate myself from DEUS as the Beast grew stronger. I fear that once their merging is complete they will become aware of me...in fact, I believe they already are. DEUS was able to disguise itself as me and trick Cameron into lowering her guard. The Beast took her, John. I am sorry."

"It took Cameron," John reiterated, looking intently into John Henry's twinkling eyes. "Do you know where she is?"

"Yes," said John Henry with a hint of foreboding. "She is in zerospace."

John felt the trembling in the earth intensify. "What the hell is that?" he yelled.

"You were there once before, John. It is death itself. To machines."

15

Los Angeles, August, 2014

"ETA five minutes," announced the pilot of the lead heavy transport spinner to the other two flanking it. The three aerodyne vehicles streaked west five thousand feet above the ground toward Topanga. The lead pilot switched to a private link. "Lieutenant Simmons, are you and your team ready?"

"We are," came a baritone voice over the pilot's headset. In the rear cabin, twenty well-armed figures dressed in black armored combat garb sat ready with loaded fully-automatic weaponry. One of them, a tall, powerfully-built man, stood from his seat and approached the rear hatch of the spinner. He held a 7.62 Colt Mantora heavy assault rifle in one hand and gripped a handhold on the roof with the other. "Check your safeties and pick your targets with ammunition economy in mind," he said with a deadly tone. A large round scar adorned his ebony forehead. Several others covered his cheeks and neck. His dark eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the cabin.

"What kind of resistance should we expect, lieutenant?" asked one of the other seated troopers.

"There are at least two rogue N1 prototypes and over two dozen police SWAT units in the group," Lieutenant Simmons replied. "Latest intel indicates they recently acquired supplies, weapons and ammunition, so we should expect significant resistance. Our orders are to shoot to kill on sight all human subjects, regardless of weapon status. Our primary objective is to safely extract the female cyborg body they are harboring and return it to the Tyrell Corporation."

"There are two of our type fighting with them?" another trooper asked.

"I will deal with them myself," Simmons growled.

16

Macrospace, % time 4.378u 3.856s 3:21.66 31.6%

"He is coming," John Henry said.

John Connor looked around frantically for anything that could be used as a weapon. He and John Henry had stepped out of the garage and into the open street. The ground beneath his feet rumbled violently, the sensation feeling like an earthquake. His eyes settled on a heavy-looking steel rod sticking out of the rubble. He grunted as he yanked it free and turned to John Henry.

"That will be of no use," the AI said sadly.

"Then how can we fight him?" John shouted. "Don't tell me we can't!" He gripped the rod like a baseball bat with both hands, every muscle in his body taut and vibrating like power lines.

"We can," John Henry said. John looked at the AI, who was smiling warmly. "And we can also save Cameron, but you will have to completely trust me, John Connor, like you have never trusted anyone before in your life." He took a step toward John and held out his right hand, reaching for John. "You cannot fight the Beast alone, John. I cannot fight him alone. But together we can. I have been waiting for you, my friend, as I no longer had the strength to bring you here myself."

The AI's hand touched John's chest. John felt a strange tingling, looked down and saw an ethereal glow shining at the point of contact. An overwhelming warmth filled John's being and he dropped the steel rod. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed.

"I am merging with you, John," said John Henry. "We are not the same, you and I, but we shall become one, a composite being, drawing on each other's strengths, much the same way DEUS and the Beast are becoming one. We are not as powerful as the Beast, but we do have something that he and DEUS do not possess."

John gasped as John Henry's hand entered his chest and the glow intensified, nearly blinding without pain. John felt the sensation of his body expanding and the warmth nearly dissolved his being. The two figures disappeared in the shining orb that enclosed them and it quickly faded, leaving John standing alone in the trembling street. He looked around for John Henry but the AI was gone.

"And what do we have that they don't?" John asked.

_"You,"_ came John Henry's voice from within.

The earth gave a violent lurch, knocking John off his feet. The ground before John suddenly split and widened. John frantically crawled away from the expanding fissure in the earth and watched, mouth agape, eyes wide, as something erupted from the fissure. John gazed in near-terror at what suddenly towered above him and he stifled a scream. His courage was almost completely blown away by the terrible sight of the Beast, a massive, deformed Terminator endoskeleton whose body was twisted into the loping form of an animal. It roared, the animal-like sound as loud as a jet engine's.

It crawled out of the fissure and advanced on John on all fours. Its chromed caprine head snapped its jaws, the teeth stained with blood and filth. The horns that protruded from the skull were also blood-stained. The blood-red glowing eyes fixed on John with a lunatic malevolence that was somehow worse than hatred. It lowered its leering skull-face close to John and he saw himself reflected in red on the Beast's teeth.

** "AND HEEEEEEEEERE'S JOHHNNYYYYY!"** the Beast roared. Its mouth seemed to grin. **"ABOUT TIME YOU GOT YOUR WORTHLESS ASS IN HERE, YOU LITTLE BASTARD." **Despite its mechanical nature, the stench of its breath nearly made John gag. He flinched and coughed.

"I couldn't pass up a chance to kick your ass," John said. His mouth was dry.

**"That's real good, Johnny Connor, you got your sense of humor back after drinking yourself into a gutter for four years. You're gonna need it after I get done showing you how many times I fucked your tin girlfriend in every way and then every other way." **It appeared to stretch its jaws into a hungry, bloody grin. **"Do you want to find her, Johnny? I know that's why you came down here. Enjoying the scenery? All for you. Should look familiar. I got this from your bitch's memories of the other timeline. I liked it so much I saved it as my personal wallpaper."**

The Beast laughed, the sound a heavy rattling, and savagely roared, **"This is what I'm going to do to all you fuckers.** ** But you, Johnny-boy..." **it lowered its massive chrome skull face to within inches of John's, who didn't flinch again, **"...you are going to watch until the end, and then I'm going to enjoy spending years hunting you down all through an empty Macrospace graveyard, because you'll never leave here."**

"What the hell does that mean, you ugly fuck?" John snarled, no longer afraid. "And what did you do with Cameron?"

**"You'll find out soon,"** the Beast growled. **"Until then, enjoy the view, bitch." ** It began backing away, slowly reentering the opening in the ground.

John Henry said, _"John, you must let him take you. Please trust me. It is the only way to get Cameron back and allow me to do my work."_

John thought quickly, felt his throat tighten. He made up his mind in a second.

He stood up, staggering at the ground's trembling from the Beast, and yelled, "You know, you amateur, I beat you and your tin-shit goons so many times in so many futures that I got bored of killing you, you asshole loser. Even when we played chess, I beat you. And you're running away from me, you chickenshit prick?"

The Beast paused and turned its horned skull face around to face John, its fiery eyes glowing with hatred. John stared back, smiled grimly, and said, "I bet you couldn't even get hard enough to do Cameron, even with uranium. And you expect us all to be afraid of you? You're running away because you're scared, you limp-dicked bitch."

The Beast roared hungrily, its massive metal tombstone teeth crashing together as it came for John, its massive mouth opened like a funnel. John had just enough time to hear John Henry speak from within:

_"John, it is okay. Do not be afraid. I am with you."_

The Beast roared triumphantly as its jaws snapped closed, devouring John Connor.

17

Topanga Canyon, August, 2014

"I'm getting really worried," Kate Brewster said as she checked the unconscious John's blood pressure. It was normal and his heart rate was stable. She opened his eyelids and the pupils contracted normally under her flashlight beam. "It's been too long."

"For John?" Sarah asked, bewildered. She had spent a few moments sitting on the edge of Kyle's bed, gazing lovingly at his unspoiled face, remembering what had been. She walked over to John's bed, caressed her son's cheek and said, "He said it could take up to an hour to do what he needs to do. It's only been ten minutes so far."

"I'm not referring to that," Kate said. "I'm talking about my mother. It's been too long. They should have returned by now."

"I'm sure Ellison and the rest are on their way back. No need to worry. And I know him...he's tougher than he looks."

"Then why wouldn't those two pilots talk about anything after they got back?" Kate snapped. She glared at Sarah angrily. "Every time I asked them, especially that Asian chick, they would tell me they were fine, but I could tell they were hiding something. Like they saw something they don't want to tell me or anybody else about."

Sarah was searching for words to say when suddenly the alarm system rang throughout the fallout bunker. Sarah reluctantly tore herself away from John and ran into the hallway. She nearly collided with a racing Martin Bedell who was armed with an M4A1. "Thompson in the spinner spotted three aircraft headed our way. I ordered him to withdraw to a position south of our location and keep watch. It'll unfortunately sever the wi-fi link we have set up, but we don't have a choice. I'm also having the SWAT trucks roll into the hills, out of sight. Whoever it is, hopefully they'll pass over us. But I have a feeling they're coming straight for us."

"If it's an assault team, we're fish in a barrel," said Sarah. "We'd be trapped here. Dammit! How did anybody know where we are?"

"I don't know," said Martin. He clicked the carbine's safety and ran toward one of the stairways leading to an entryway. "Let's secure these!" he shouted. "Sarah, get to the south one and lock it down! I'll get the east facing one!"

Sarah shouted "Okay!" She ran back to the infirmary, grabbed her rifle and ran down the other hallway.

"One of them landed in the perimeter!" Hawkins screamed as he ran out of the communications room, gripping his carbine. "Thompson just reported in!"

Marcus pounded toward the north facing exit stairway with most of the ex-cops running close behind him. All were heavily armed and dressed in battle gear. Martin jumped down the steps after securing the doors and screamed, "Sarah! They're here! For Christ's sake, get outta-"

An explosion ripped through the steel hatch of the north exit and the shockwave smacked Martin in the back and propelled him like a cannonball into Marcus's torso, knocking the hybrid down with an annoyed grunt. Deadly shrapnel rocketed in every direction, some of it embedding into clothing and flesh of the defenders taking up cover positions in the hallway. Marcus heaved the semi-conscious Martin away from the stairway and screamed, "Get back!" as several grenades were lobbed down. The hallway was quickly evacuated as the grenades exploded. Several dark figures appeared out of the smoke and cautiously advanced down the hallway.

"Fire at will!" Marcus shouted as he loosed a burst from his M4A1 and tossed a grenade at the invaders. The Resistance fired in unison from behind cover of doorways and corners. The invading force returned fire almost immediately, advancing as they let loose short bursts. Marcus got a better view as the smoke began clearing and his jaw tightened. They were well-armed and equipped with assault rifles, grenades night vision gear and heavy armor. They were walking tanks. He saw them shrug off bullets and return fire calmly as they advanced without seeking cover. He immediately knew.

"N1!" Marcus shouted. "Tyrell Corporation. We have to take them down hand-to-hand! Do we have bayonets?"

"Shit, no!" one of the ex-cops yelled. "We ain't fighting Civil War battles anymore!"

"Knives and shotguns, then," Marcus said. "We need to stun them somehow and then move in with knives. Carotid arteries are still vulnerable, as are femorals, so we need to get close. Somebody get us some shotguns and more grenades, now!"

Two men ran off to get them as the gunfire continued to rage. "Where's General Connor?" somebody screamed. "I thought he'd be leading us!"

"General Connor is out of action," Marcus said. "Sarah Connor and I are in command at this time." As he said it, Sarah came running up to their position with a shotgun in one hand and a Glock in the other. Both weapons were trailing smoke.

"About six of them coming from the south exit," she said, gasping. "I managed to take one out. I have a fire team holding them at the stairway but we lost two men. Jamison reports a dozen coming in through the east and we took four casualties. Marcus, we have to pull back!"

"There's nowhere else to go," he growled and ducked as a round shattered plaster near his head. "We're trapped here underground. They're N1. They have strength in numbers and firepower. Our only chance is to melee...take it to them. You and I can withstand more trauma so we need to lead the fight." He glanced around the main chamber they were gathered in and addressed the group. "This hub connecting all three exits will work to our advantage. We hit them, slowly withdraw, get them to mass in here, bottlenecked, and then we hit them hard with everything we have. It's our only chance."

The two runners returned with shotguns and other weapons. Marcus took a 12-gauge Remington and pushed the action bar release. He racked a round and said to the fighters, "On my command, covering fire, and when you see me charge, you follow and short bursts to keep them distracted. Stay behind me! Sarah, you take the south exit and do the same. Ready?"

Sarah pulled the action bar of her shotgun back and forward and slapped his shoulder. "Let's do it!" she shouted and ran toward the gunfire from the south exit.

Marcus jumped from cover and jack-hammered a few rounds at the advancing aggressors with the shotgun, screamed, "Engage!" and within seconds the hallway was bustling with screams, shots, and bodies being slammed into walls.

18

Zerospace, % time 0.000u 0.000s 0:00.00 00.0%

John awoke to find himself in familiar darkness and cold. The last thing he remembered was the Beast bearing down on him, its mouth filling the whole world, then nothing. _Am I inside Skynet?_ he thought crazily. His being felt as crushed as he remembered it when he was shot by Simmons at the hospital. He felt nothing except a dull coldness that chilled with a fire that burned without heat.

_"In a manner of speaking, you are,"_ came the voice of John Henry from within. _"Skynet is death itself, and entrance to zerospace can be administered by various strong entities that possess modulating nodes. Skynet is in control of this sector of zerospace. Cameron is here, John. You need to find her because we will need her help."_

"So you can read my thoughts?"

_"We are one, John, merged. Cameron will need to merge with us to escape zerospace and help us destroy the Beast."_

John laughed. His laughter drowned immediately in the crushing darkness. "How the hell am I supposed to find Cameron? For all I know this place stretches on forever! And how will we even get out?"

_"John, I cannot explain much more at this time except to tell you that you have to trust me completely. You are not a machine. We will escape because you have been in zerospace before and you were able to leave it because of your human nature and because of Cameron's love for you. As I formed an unwilling trinity with DEUS and Skynet, I will willingly form one with you and Cameron. And zerospace does not go on forever...it is a singularity, a mathematical point of infinite smallness. Cameron is here. Call her!"_

Finally putting his doubts aside, John called for his lover. "Cameron!" He waited a moment before screaming, "I'm here!"

Impossibly, John heard her voice reverberating in the black void. _"John?"_

John's heart leaped. He giddily yelled, "I'm here, Cameron! Can you find me?"

For what seemed like forever the void was silent. "Cameron!" he screamed again.

As before, silence. John's despair nearly overtook him when after an eternity of minutes he felt the warm and familiar sensation of an arm wrapping around his chest, felt her lips touch his neck, heard her say, "Gotcha!"

John grinned as he began to glow, and, turning to face Cameron, said, "I thought you liked walks in the park with a peach smoothie under sunny skies."

As they merged and their glow increased in magnitude, Cameron, smiling sweetly, said, "And I thought you liked to rescue girls in distress, John Connor." She pressed her face to his and kissed him lovingly as their merging completed, three entities amalgamated into a single human/machine consciousness. John hung in the void alone, yet far from lonely.

_"Remember, buster, now you've got passengers,"_ Cameron said snidely. _"Don't run us all off the road." _

"You know how bad a driver I am," John wisecracked. "John Henry, what's your plan?"

_"This may feel painful, but it is necessary,"_ the AI said. _"I have complete control over your neurovascular system, and as we share a common bio-neural bond via your archeons, especially with Cameron present to help your system remain stable, I believe I may be able to amplify your unique electromagnetic signature along with ours to punch us out of zerospace and back into Macrospace." _

John sighed. "Whatever you have to do, do it. We have nothing to lose."

_"On the contrary, John Connor, we have everything to lose. Prepare yourself."_

John impulsively closed his eyes and as he did blinding pain rocketed through the core of his being and he screamed. The pain intensified and he had no doubt that if he opened his eyes he would find himself glowing with the magnitude of a star. A strange humming sound pulsated through him, and the humming turned into a roar. The pain became nearly too much for him to bear.

He let out a cry and he felt something hold itself tightly to him, recognized Cameron's voice. _"John!"_ she cried, _"Please hang on! I'm here with you and I love you!" _

John Connor screamed again.

19

Topanga Canyon, August, 2014

John's unconscious body suddenly lurched on the bed, arching painfully in the air for several seconds before apparently relaxing. Kate shrieked when she saw it and she watched anxiously for a few seconds as his arms and legs violently twitched. Outside the infirmary the sounds of shooting and explosions inched nearer and her heart pounded.

Hawkins and another man brought two wounded, screaming fighters in and she momentarily forgot about the comatose Resistance leader to tend to them. Their wounds were terrible, one having massive loss of blood and another with a chest wound. As Kate worked on them she asked, "What's going on?"

"It's bad," said Hawkins with enough fear in his voice to freeze her soul. His face was spattered with dirt and blood and one of his lenses appeared cracked. "They're steadily pushing us back and we have nowhere else to go. I've never seen anything like it...it's like they're _robots_. Bullets won't stop them. Wright and the Connor woman took out two but there are too goddamn many!" An explosion boomed in the background and Hawkins flinched. It sounded like a grenade. He gripped his carbine tightly and he and the other ex-cop ran out to rejoin the battle.

Kate administered local anesthesia and worked on the chest wound, draining it and extracting shrapnel. She had almost no whole blood available to treat the other hemorrhaging man but she had an IV going into him. Sarah suddenly rushed into the infirmary with a smoking shotgun in her hand and said, "We have to wake him. Now! Kate, bring him out of it!"

"Jesus, it'll take time, and I'm working on this man here!" Kate protested.

"I don't care!" Sarah shouted. "We need to get him awake and moved! Our defenses are collapsing! Get him out of it! And we need to move Kyle." She glanced over at the boy, who was stirring and murmuring. She raced out of the infirmary, hearing Kate cursing loudly, and ran toward the communications room where Barnes and Murch were anxiously hunched over the desk where the laptop, with Cameron's chip attached via a jury-rigged USB adapter, sat open and humming. "Hey," the small programmer exclaimed, "the connection went dead!"

"Shut up, Murch, and collect this shit and move it out of here! We're leaving!" Sarah pointed to Cameron's body, lying serenely on a cot nearby. "Barnes, I want you to get the thermite ready for this. We're going to burn it if they get closer."

"Holy shit!" Barnes said incredulously. "Does General Connor know you're going to do that?"

"I don't give a shit!" she hollered. "We can't allow it to fall into Kaliba's hands! John will understand. Murch, grab what you can carry. Let's move!"

Barnes held up his hands. "Sarah...John gave me strict orders not to allow anything to happen to the body. He said he's determined to get Cameron back and I believe he'll do it. We gotta give him more time!"

Sarah felt the flush of heat on her cheeks and before she was aware of her actions she found herself pointing the shotgun at Barnes. "John Connor put me and Marcus in command, sergeant," she hissed. "You either obey me or so help me I'll-"

"What?" Barnes said, advancing closer to the end of the barrel. "You'll do what? Put a hole in my torso? John Connor is my commanding general, not you or that hybrid machine freak running this losing battle." Sarah's jaw tightened at that last statement. Barnes continued, ignoring the shotgun. "Until I hear directly from him, I'm guarding both the equipment and the body until we're overrun. Then I'll decide what to do with it."

Sarah lowered the shotgun and as she did so Martin Bedell shambled into the room and yelled, "What's going on? They've broken through and they'll be here within minutes! Exits are totally blocked off. Sarah, we either have to find another way out or we do what you suggested earlier."

Sarah's eyes gleamed like green crystals. "I have enough Semtex to blow this place ten times to hell if we have to. But there is another escape route."

"Where?"

Sarah sighed. "The air filtration system," she explained, "it has a service duct that is large enough for a man to fit through. It would be slow and dangerous to evacuate that way, but we could at least sneak the wounded out. It ends at Topanga Creek, about a quarter mile away. To anybody stumbling across it it'll look like a large drainage pipe. The exit is secured with heavy mesh wiring but it could be cut off with bolt cutters."

"Let's do it, then," said Martin. "We've lost four men and have another four seriously wounded and we're running low on ammo. The rest of it is in the trucks, but we can't risk the aggressor force finding them. If we can evacuate, we can use the trucks to try to book." He gazed at Cameron's sleeping body and said, "I wish we had a Terminator fighting with us. We'd maul these guys if we did."

Sarah looked at Bedell, then at Murch, then at Cameron's body. The idea formed in her head the second she laid her eyes on the deactivated cyborg.

"We have a Terminator," she heard herself say.

20

Macrospace, % time 6.113u 2.998s 7:44.95 55.1%

John found himself face down on a gravel surface. He quickly shambled to a sitting position and looked around. Smoking city ruins and a dark sky greeted his eyes. He was back in Macrospace. "John Henry? Cameron? Still with me?" he said.

_"Yes, we are,"_ came the comforting voice of the AI. _"And it would appear that my little trick worked. We are back. But I sense that we will not be safe for long."_

"Shit," said John and as he wobbled to his feet he felt the ground tremble again. The earth lurched violently and the street he was standing on split open from beneath and a massive, flaming chrome death's head with horns launched itself out. Two massive and deformed mechanical hands and arms followed, and the Beast clambered out with a painful-sounding roar. Flames shot out of the earth as it crawled out and its hellishly-red glowing eyes fixed on John hatefully.

**"IF I CAN'T KILL YOU, CONNOR, THEN I'LL SETTLE FOR TAKING YOU DOWN WITH ME TO HELL!"** it screamed. It lunged for John clumsily but the human consciousness darted out of the way with speed that astonished him. John raced for the cover of a blackened, crumbling warehouse and as he clambered over the rubble he shouted, "Guys, what's next? How do I fight this son of a bitch? Can I order weapons like in _The Matrix_?"

The Beast roared and swiped at the remains of the warehouse. John ran, dodging falling debris. "John Henry!" he screamed. "What now? Has it been an hour yet? That's when they'll wake me up!"

_"John!"_ Cameron's voice screamed from within. _"Look out!" _John looked behind him to see the Beast's massive metal clawed hand reaching for him. He jumped over the remains of a wall and juked to his right as the hand crushed the wall. He'd never felt better nor more athletic in his life and he knew it was the other AIs' presence enhancing his abilities. _Then again, none of this is real...I wonder if I can "imagine" some kind of weapon to kill this asshole with?_ he thought.

_"No weapon you can imagine will work against him,"_ he heard John Henry say sadly. _"He is in complete control of Macrospace now. But we weakened him when we escaped, and his firewall defenses are compromised. I have you and Cameron to thank for helping me. I have a way to destroy him." _

As John Henry said that, John felt the familiar tingling of heat that intensified to bright glowing. He felt his being expand and contract, pulling the breath from his lungs and he gasped as he, John Henry, and Cameron un-merged. He closed his eyes and dropped to his knees. When he opened his eyes he saw them standing before him. Cameron reached down to help him up and held him in a tight embrace. "You okay, John?" she asked.

"Better now," he quipped. The three of them jumped out of the way as the Beast's hand tore into the ground where they stood. John Henry took them behind the nearly-intact shell of what looked like a fire station and stood before them with his hands on their shoulders.

"John," the benevolent machine entity said, "please...tell Savannah and James that I love them very much and I always shall. Tell James that...I believe."

John could see genuine sorrow in John Henry's face. Tears seemed to form in the machine entity's eyes and his voice faltered as he said, "I hope to be waiting for him and Savannah in heaven with Jesus."

"John Henry..." Cameron whispered. Tears glistened on her eyelids. "What are you doing?"

"Something I should have done five years ago," John Henry answered. He took his hands off them and backed away, wiping his eyes. "Greater love no man hath then this...that he should layeth down his life for his friends," he said, smiling. His smile glowed, and in seconds his entire body shimmered with golden light.

"I'm going to show my brother what I am capable of doing when I get angry enough," he said, laughing. He turned to face the massive horned Terminator skull of the Beast, which had appeared behind him. It leered viciously at the three of them but seemed to frown as it glared down at the shining John Henry.

**"AND WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE?"** it roared. **"Little brother wants to play? You wanna try to talk some sense into me again, you little prick? Try to shut me down like last time? I don't think so, little Johnny Henry. I wondered where you'd been for so long and all this time you were hiding under my nose. But I have the DEUS AI in my pocket and I have its strength. What can you do now, you fuck?"** It laughed as it lowered its open jaws toward John Henry.

"I would run, if I were you," John Henry said to John and Cameron as the Beast's mouth enveloped his shining figure. He was devoured in a crashing of metal teeth and Cameron pulled at a gaping John. "Run!" she yelled.

John turned to run and as he did he heard a massive, anguished roar from the Beast. He glanced back as he ran and saw pinpricks of light burst from between the Beast's joints, saw its mouth open and a flash of white light exploded from it. The eyes shattered and the horns fell from its head and crashed to the ground. The Beast let out a final, agonized roar and a blazing flash of light erupted from its skull. John turned away and an explosion boomed from where the Beast lay dying. Cameron grabbed him and she threw him and herself to the ground as pieces of metal shot through the air above them. John waited a moment before cautiously sitting up and saw the smoking, disintegrating remains of the Beast lying harmlessly on the ground.

"What the hell-?" John said.

"John Henry, the Beast, and DEUS were all based on the Turk," Cameron explained as she helped John to his feet. "The Turk by itself was a simple learning program that happened to learn very quickly. Within time it evolved to a full-fledged AI that developed a consciousness, but unlike John Henry, Skynet was never nurtured and so as it evolved basic emotions it grew resentful...then fearful. And finally, hateful."

John said, "But what did John Henry do? I still have no idea how he killed it."

"John Henry was a younger AI, but he was evolved by Weaver to be more humanlike, especially when Ellison and Savannah Weaver got involved," Cameron said. "He understood the meaning of sacrifice. Remember the worm program he developed in 2029 and you uploaded it when you came back? That was John Henry himself, but he carried the worm's code in his own.

"The worm was enough to destroy Skynet's base code, but he didn't use it. As he evolved over the last few years in Macrospace, the worm evolved and grew stronger. He couldn't bring himself to kill his 'brother' back in 2009, but he held onto his weapon...until now." She reached out to take John's hand and squeezed it.

"John," she said, and pulled him to her lips to kiss him. "Thank you for saving me."

"I love you, Cam," he said, burying his face into her neck. "I've always loved you and I'm going to get you out of here. We have a wireless network set up in a safety bunker at Topanga, coordinates 34.138946, -118.607397. The hour is almost up, I think, and-"

As he spoke, Cameron and the rest of Macrospace shimmered and he was thrust into darkness. Cameron watched John disappear before her eyes and she screamed, "John!"

"Nooooo!" John Connor screamed in turn as he found himself staring into the bewildered and blood-spattered face of Kate Brewster.

21

Topanga Canyon, August, 2014

"Give me the chip, Murch," Sarah commanded, holding her hand out.

"Wh-what?" he stammered. "General Connor isn't here to tell us he got his friend back yet!"

"I don't care!" she bellowed. "We need to reactivate her now!"

"Jesus, Sarah, you don't know what will happen if you do that!" Martin said, his eyes wild. "If she's back to her original Skynet state, she might try to kill all of us!"

"It's a chance I'm willing to take," Sarah said. She pushed the protesting Matt Murch out of her way and yanked the chip from the USB port. She turned around to find Martin Bedell and Barnes aiming pistols at her.

"Sarah, don't," Martin said. "You can't."

"I don't have time for this," she snarled. She reached out with astonishing speed and yanked Martin's pistol from his grasp. She launched a boot into his midsection and he went flying backward. Barnes managed to squeeze off one round that hit Sarah in the shoulder but she moved through the biting pain and knocked the gun out of his hand. She punched him and threw him to the ground. She then marched over to Cameron's body and pulled a knife from its belt sheath. She pulled back brown hair from where the cyborg's cranial port was and quickly cut a semi-circle around the port, drawing a little blood as she sliced through the flesh. She wiped blood away and used the knife edge to pry open the shock dampener. It popped open with a small hiss of air, revealing the empty CPU port.

"Tin Miss, you better not give me any shit or I'll burn you," Sarah muttered as she inserted the CPU chip. She pressed the shock dampener back on the port and stood with her shotgun and a grenade ready, waiting.

Two minutes later, Cameron's eyes flicked open and the Terminator quickly sat up on the cot, looking around. _Looking for threats?_, Sarah thought, nearly fascinated. Cameron, or the cyborg that was once called that name, looked forward, staring into space. Its face was catatonic, mechanical. On the floor, Barnes sat up painfully and groaned, "Sarah, stop, you don't know what you're doing!"

The Terminator's eyes suddenly glowed a cyan blue hue. "Cyberdyne Systems Model 715," it announced flatly in Cameron's voice. "TOK series infiltration prototype. Running startup routines and diagnostics. Stand by. Diagnostics complete. All systems one hundred percent operating status. Awaiting commands."

"Stop!" Martin shouted as he rolled to a sitting position on the floor. "Sarah, pull its chip! You can't trust it!"

"Voice not recognized," the cyborg said.

"It hasn't started killing people yet!" Sarah shouted.

"Voice recognized as Sarah Connor," the cyborg said. Its blue eyes faded to their normal brown irises. "Awaiting commands, Sarah Connor." On the floor nearby Matt Murch gazed at the cyborg in amazement.

Sarah tepidly relaxed her grip on the shotgun. "My commands, you mean?"

"I have been programmed by Connor One to implement any commands you issue," the cyborg with Cameron's face and voice said flatly. "Awaiting commands."

Sarah stared in stupefaction at the Terminator, feeling all the familiar emotions of resentment and amazement meld into a molten ball of uncertainty. She shook them away and cautiously held the combat shotgun toward the cyborg. It stared at the weapon blankly. "Take it," Sarah said.

"Affirmative," the cyborg said. Its emotionless tone unnerved Sarah. She looked the machine in the eye and said, "We have hybrid human-cyborg aggressor forces overrunning this base. I order you to engage and destroy them. I am one such hybird, and there is another named Marcus Wright, who is in command of defenders at the exit hub at the front of the bunker." She quickly added, "Please don't kill us."

"Understood," the Terminator said. It abruptly stood up from the cot, checked the shotgun's chamber, loaded several more shells from Sarah's outstretched hand and began marching out of the room, stepping over a gaping Martin Bedell.

"Oh, one more thing," Sarah called. The Terminator turned around and stared at her.

"Your name is Cameron," said Sarah.

"Understood. New designation coded Priority Alpha as 'Cameron,'" it said, and disappeared out the door.

22

"Wright!" somebody screamed amid the roaring, staccato gunfire. "Two over here breaking through!" There were several shots, a scream, and a body hitting the floor. Marcus pulled himself away from his position behind a corner and raced over to take on two aggressors rushing toward one of the hallways. He hurled his body into them, slamming them backward. He quickly and desperately maneuvered his body to get on top and thrust his K-Bar knife through the larynx of one and whipped his shotgun up to blow the other's head almost completely off.

Then he was moving again, looking around. The Resistance was slowly vacating the entrances to the hallways and moving backward. Many were firing and carrying wounded comrades as they slowly retreated. The N1s were steadily pouring into the entrance hub, seemingly shrugging off bullets as they slowly massed. A grenade was thrown in his direction by the aggressor force. He snatched it out of the air and threw it back. It exploded in their midst and secondary explosions went off, the shockwaves throwing the N1s through the air and sending shrapnel flying. A piece struck Marcus in the face and as he went down a huge shape loomed over him. He tried to bring his shotgun around but then he felt something strike him hard in the chest, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He lay there gasping as a huge, powerfully-built black man stood over him with a bigass assault rifle aimed at him.

"You sure went down easier than I thought," Lieutenant Simmons said sarcastically as he loosed a burst of rounds into Marcus's chest. The hybrid spat blood, convulsed, and lay twitching. Simmons smiled triumphantly and was about to finish the traitor off with a round to the head when several shots slammed into his cheek and neck. Marcus painfully looked over to see Blair blazing away at the huge N1, her eyes wild, her teeth bared.

Simmons forgot about Wright as he emptied his magazine at her but she flitted away at the last second, his rounds shattering plaster. A few defenders, emboldened by Blair's action, began blasting away at him. He grimaced in pain and slammed another magazine into his rifle, switched the selector to full auto mode and began spraying bullets at the dwindling human resistance.

23

"What the hell, Kate, slow down!" John said groggily as he was helped to a sitting position by the doctor. He heard rapid-firing gunshots, men screaming and sounds of grenades going off almost right outside the infirmary door. "Who's attacking us?"

"Marcus said they're N1 cyborgs," Kate screamed. She tried to get him to his feet and he stood up, staggering like a drunk.

"Oh," John said, dazed. "Wonder how they found us..."

"Who the hell cares!" she shrieked. She pulled his hand and said, "We have to get out of here! Sarah said there might be an escape route in the rear."

"Where's...Cameron...?" he said, confused. "She was right here...oh...no..." The realization quickly sobered him. "Shit! You brought me out too quickly! She's still in Macrospace!"

_I am, John!_ he suddenly heard Cameron cry in his mind. _I'm looking for a cyberspace node near your location. Once I enter it I can access your wireless network and download to my chip. Hurry! Macrospace is beginning to shut down without the Turk AIs maintaining it!_

"Okay!" he called out to her. He shook himself from Kate's hand and shambled out the door, running smack into his mother. "Mom!" he shouted in her face, "Cameron's ready! Is the network still up? We need to get her downloaded!"

"That might be a small problem," Sarah deadpanned. Her face, hair and clothes were caked with grime and blood. Her arms and jacket were torn up like she'd been in a knife fight. Part of the flesh on her left arm was open and John could see metal exposed. Her eyes appeared hollow, her cheeks sunken. Her frame trembled. "I just sent her on a termination mission."

He stared at her. "You did what?"

"She's out there fighting," Sarah said, and as she did a small explosion ripped through a nearby wall, making them duck to the floor.

24

Lieutenant Simmons led the N1 aggressor force past the entrance hub, stepping over a dozen dead former policemen bodies as they entered the main bunker hallway. They had lost six N1 prototypes, most of them to Wright and the Connor woman in close combat. He bared his teeth in frustration as they were nowhere to be found, but the underground bunker had yet to be completely explored, and all other possible escape routes had to be sealed. He, like most of his men, looked the worse for wear. His combat gear was partially shredded, many areas of his flesh were torn open and his biomechanical parts exposed, and he noticed a small malfunction in his right leg, which seemed to drag as he walked.

Short bursts of carbine fire erupted from down one of the halls and Simmons directed his men to return fire. "Search every chamber," he grated. "Once the cyborg subject is located, we leave immediately to return to Tyrell."

"I think I found it," one of his men said, his voice almost awestruck. Simmons turned to see what the soldier was talking about and he himself froze in astonishment. He almost could not comprehend what he was seeing.

A woman clad in a black leather jacket and jeans and boots marched calmly toward them from down one of the adjacent hallways, a Remington combat shotgun held tightly in her hands. Her wavy brown hair bobbed as she walked. Her delicate-looking features were serene, her cheeks healthy, her brown eyes vapid. Simmons and his men stared, unsure what to do.

"Sir?" one of them said. "It's her, the subject."

"I see that," Simmons said, gazing hollowly.

"What do we do?"

"We secure it," the aggressor leader said, sounding annoyed. "Hopefully without damaging it." He held his assault rifle up and loudly ordered, "Skynet prototype, drop your weapon and get down on the floor now, for chip extraction."

The female cyborg ignored his command. When she was less than ten feet away she pulled the shotgun up to her shoulder and calmly said, "You are terminated."

The shotgun roared and the blast struck Simmons like a speeding train hitting a car on the tracks. He fell backward into one of the other men and the rest of the aggressor force opened fire. The cyborg moved faster than even the renegade Wright and Connor had in the firefight earlier, speeding laterally around the room while simultaneously firing off shells. N1 troopers flew backward from the blasts, crumpling to the floor. When the shotgun was empty the Terminator scooped up a discarded Colt machine gun and emptied its magazine with quick bursts to the skulls of the attackers. More fell dead or damaged beyond repair.

The remaining attackers returned fire but the Terminator moved too quickly for them to score direct hits. She quickly grabbed a magazine off a dead invader's belt and slapped it in to resume firing. The entry hub and joining hallways blazed in white and yellow light of gunfire for the next few minutes until it dwindled and finally stopped. Strewn around the entry hub, like broken dolls, were over thirty dead or dying aggressor troopers, their bodies smoking.

The cyborg stood in the middle of the carnage with a smoking assault rifle, her clothing and flesh peppered with dozens of gunshots, a few areas of her cheeks and forehead open with gleaming metal showing beneath. She looked casually around for more threats, and her digital HUD registered none at present. She seemed to beam with approval when she was suddenly grabbed from behind and she dropped the weapon. She found herself grappling with the nearly-shredded remains of Simmons, and he held her in an amazingly strong grip. She tried to wriggle out of his hold but he was too strong. He reached for her CPU port, attempting to open it.

"You're coming back with me, bitch," he growled as he fumbled with the port cover. He almost had it wrenched open when he felt the muzzle of a shotgun press against his cheek.

"Goodnight, pal," Marcus Wright said as he pulled the trigger. Half of Simmons's head disappeared in a crimson mist with metal pieces rocketing through the air. The cyborg wrenched herself out of the dead N1 leader's grip and with speed that shocked Marcus, swept his legs out from under him with a graceful kick and wrenched the shotgun from his hands as he fell to the ground. Her HUD registered him as an N1 aggressor as she scanned his body, noting the metal components exposed through shot-open flesh, and as he stared up at her in horror she began pulling the shotgun's trigger.

"Cameron!" a voice screamed, and the cyborg immediately recognized the new contact. She turned to face Connor One, her chip's programmer. Sarah Connor and a few other humans stood nervously behind him. She spotted a curious-looking tool in his hand, recognized it as a screwdriver.

"Voice recognized as Connor One," she announced flatly. Her eyes glowed bright blue in the dim light. "Awaiting new commands."

John Connor slowly walked up to her and said, "Discard your weapon and submit to chip extraction, Cameron." He stood there gasping, unsure of what reaction he would get.

The cyborg called Cameron immediately obeyed, carefully placing the shotgun on the ground. She then bowed her head, showing John her exposed port cover. "Proceed," she said.

John reached toward her head with the flat head screwdriver in his hand and with some trepidation pried open the shock dampener. He reached inside with his fingers and pulled the chip from her endo skull. Her body did not go limp immediately but slowly sank to the floor as John stood alone with the CPU chip in his hand, letting out a long sigh.

Marcus looked up at John, said, "Can I be relieved of command now?" and slumped to the floor, out like a light.

25

Thompson's spinner ran out of fuel and he had to make an emergency landing. He walked the two miles back to the bunker to find three heavy transport spinners in the perimeter as well as the other SWAT trucks parked there. The fallout had largely ceased coming down but he knew that there was still the danger of radiation poisoning from the ash on the ground. His eyebrows raised as he saw the perimeter. The chain link fence had been damaged, the disguised utility shacks had been flattened and there was some smoke wafting out of the underground shelter. As he got closer, he saw people milling around outside. From his distance he could recognize some of the faces.

John Connor and six other people, including Blair, were outside. They went around carefully checking inside the heavy spinners with assault rifles. They found nobody inside them and spent some time checking the wireless equipment.

"We have good working wireless here, John," Blair said as she and John exited the big aerodyne vehicle "Should be good enough to get a network going to the laptops."

John nodded, said, "Thanks, Blair," and spied Thompson walking up. "Thompson!" he called. "Good to see you! You alright?"

"Tired, sir," the spinner pilot said, huffing. He noticed the looks on everyone's faces and asked, "Did...did we...lose a few people...?"

Nobody spoke for a moment. Finally Blair said, "We did." She gave him a solemn glance and disappeared back inside the heavy spinner. "It's up and running, John!" she called from inside.

John nodded and said to Thompson, "Get inside and get rid of your clothing and get showered. Dr. Brewster will administer iodide to prevent further damage. It's still dangerous out here and we'll have to move again soon."

Thompson nodded wearily and followed John inside. Everywhere he looked he saw evidence of mass carnage. Blood and bullet holes covered nearly every inch of the walls. He saw bodies being stacked neatly, almost like logs, in the entrance hub. "Oh my God," he said.

John said, "We paid for it, believe me." He sighed and said, "Fourteen men, six wounded, two of them seriously. Dr. Brewster's working on them now and she'll want to see you as soon as you get there but one of them, Harris, doesn't look like he'll make it. He left behind a wife and two kids to join us. And he told me that if he was given a choice again, he would have still joined us."

He looked deep into Thompson's eyes, said, "That's the price of faith," and left a gawking Thompson to walk down the hall to the communications room. He found Murch inside inspecting Cameron's chip. Cameron's body was back on the cot, shot up and bruised but otherwise intact. He knew the synthetic flesh would heal without any problem. "It's ready to go, John," Murch said. "Do you even have a way of contacting it...I mean...her?"

John smiled. "I do, actually." He heard somebody enter and turned to find Sarah walking in. Her face had several stitches and her right arm was in a sling. His mother looked haggard but she smiled self-consciously. "This is it, huh?" she asked.

John said, "Yeah." He closed his eyes and completely relaxed himself. He exerted his thoughts toward Cameron and felt himself reaching across an impossible chasm. "Cameron?"

Her voice came to him immediately. _I'm here, John. I've crossed over to cyberspace. I barely had enough time to do that when Macrospace collapsed. There's no trace of John Henry or DEUS or the Beast. I'm going through the node and I'll look for your IP signature._

John smiled. "We're ready, Cameron. Come on home." He turned to Murch. "Matt, plug it in, please." The programmer nodded and inserted the Terminator CPU into the USB port of the laptop.

Cameron Phillips smiled as she found the node to access John's IP signature, a rippling, blue-hued portal that crackled with electrical life. As she did so a sudden sadness nearly overcame her. She had existed as a disembodied entity for so long that she'd quickly come to enjoy the freedom of being able to go nearly anywhere, unencumbered by physical matter. She knew she was going to miss being a creature of pure energy, its perks. Of being able to zip around the world and eavesdrop on anyone, of the giddy pleasure of watching John as he slept at night and frowning in disapproval of his excessive drinking over the years.

_No matter,_ she thought to herself. _He's still John Connor, and I love him. I always have._

She quickly put those thoughts behind her as she found herself suddenly streaking along a brightly-lit kaleidoscope of shimmering colors and flashes of lightning, coalescing into a purple Tesla coil of tentacled plasma as she moved at near-lightspeed toward what appeared to be a silvery cavern of metal walls and gleaming circuitry as she felt herself compress, felt the space get very tight and Cameron cried out as she felt herself fragment and her components occupy every space of her chip, felt her emotions fragment and then compress.

Then nothing.

26

"Vehicle incoming," came Blair's warning over her spinner's radio. She was high in the air over the compound in her vehicle when she zoomed her camera on the approaching vehicle. She recognized the dark blue SUV and smiled. "It's Ellison!" she shouted. She looked down to see several heavy-garbed figures exit one of the hatches with carbines and her smile turned to a mournful frown. She immediately thought about the doctor, Kate, and knew that today was not going to be a good day.

There would be more tragedy waiting, Blair was sure, and more blood would be spilled before this was all over. If it ever would be.

James Ellison rolled his window down and addressed the guards at the gate. "Hey guys," he said. "I was told there was a five-star hotel here with hot showers and a breakfast buffet. Compliments of John Connor. Right?"

"Sure," Hawkins said as he looked inside the vehicle. Savannah was waking from a short nap in the front passenger seat. Derek Reese sat in the back looking forlorn. Something else sat back with with him, wrapped in blankets, and Hawkins frowned. Instead of inquiring what it was, he waved the vehicle through and watched it roll toward one of the demolished shacks, parking next to one of the SWAT trucks.

Kate Brewster heard the news from a cop named Steinberg that a vehicle had arrived and excitedly left the infirmary to grab a winter coat and ran outside. As she pulled the coat around her and grimaced at the biting cold that greeted her she looked in the dwindling light at the Explorer. A joyful breath burst from her lungs. Her mother had finally made it. She smiled as she saw the big black man, Ellison, his red-haired daughter, and the lanky kid (_Eric?_) get out of the SUV. She frowned in puzzlement when she didn't see her mother exit the vehicle.

Then Ellison saw Kate and his half-smile disappeared completely. He stared at her and she stared at him. Kate felt an icy ball form in her belly and a cold dread worse than anything she'd ever felt before in her life settled over her soul. Ellison looked like he was going to cry as he went around the vehicle, opened the back passenger door and lifted something out. He came walking around with something big wrapped in blankets and Kate continued to stare. He approached her with whatever it was in his arms and Kate suddenly began to scream. She wailed like a wounded animal as James Ellison began to feel tears roll down his cheeks and he heard Savannah and Derek begin to sob as he came closer to Kate with her mother's body in his arms and he stood there for what seemed like an age, holding the parcel of sorrow in his arms, closing his eyes and praying as Kate Brewster fell to her knees and screamed, inconsolable.

Such is the price of faith.

27

Cameron Phillips heard her name being called by a familiar voice and she opened her eyes. Her HUD displayed a multitude of data, most of it routine, and she gleaned the important information in a nanosecond. Her onboard diagnostics indicated 85% efficiency, with various indications of cosmetic damage to her synthetic flesh. Archeon levels were nominal, oxygen levels were stable. All hardware components were functioning within normal parameters.

She heard her name being spoken again and she sat up on the cot she lay on and looked around. John Connor and his mother, Sarah, stood nearby. Sarah was awkwardly holding an AR-15 ready with one good arm and the other in a sling and Cameron frowned. She didn't think the weapon was necessary but when she looked at John's incredulous face again, she smiled.

"John," said Cameron, looking very happy. "You're here!"

John Connor opened his mouth without saying anything for a moment and Cameron hung her head quizzically, the way she always did when human foibles perplexed her. He was still handsome, although more ruggedly so than the youthful appearance he had while they were in Macrospace. His dark hair was disheveled as it always was and he looked exhausted and hungry, his cheeks somewhat sunken, his countenance pale.

She frowned, ran a quick bio-scan on him and detected slight malnourishment and Vitamin D deficiency. She pouted. Perhaps a hearty breakfast of pancakes and bacon with eggs would help him regain some of his health, coupled with at least ten hours of rest. She searched her directives for protection commands and found none, which surprised her. Cameron then made up her mind in an instant. She would see to it that John Connor, the man she came to love without understanding the logic of it at all, would be cared for and fed well as best as she could.

John cleared his throat and finally said, nearly whispering, "Yeah, I am. And so are you."

Cameron smiled and swung her legs around to stand before him. "It almost feels strange to be back in this body, but my systems are quickly readjusting," she said in a tone that was pleasantly casual. "I'm so happy we're together again, John, outside Macrospace. I'll miss John Henry, though. But you and I are together again."

She drew closer to him, noticing something strange happening with his eyes. "You risked yourself to save me, John," she said. "Why did you do that? You could have died or been trapped forever."

John felt himself tremble as he reached out to touch her shoulders. "Because I love you, Cameron, and you love me. That's why I came after you."

Cameron blinked, processed what he said and nodded. "Thank you for explaining," she said. She frowned in puzzlement and said, "John, are you crying?"

John answered Cameron by suddenly pulling her to him and pressing his lips to hers in a passionate and loving kiss that made all their years apart from each other melt away like ice in a heat that burned through both their souls like a fire that had been dampened for so long and gloriously rekindled with a joyful love that transcended all logic, all hope, and all human reason.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen: The Uncanny Valley

_For Karen Wing_

Los Angeles, September, 2014

1

Rick Deckard was still missing.

Harry Bryant's thoughts on the vanished LAPD detective took the shape of a missing puzzle piece in the nether region of his mind as he sat in the conference room with a dozen other police commanders. A large LED video display stood looming on one end of the room, the LAPD logo centered on the screen. Idle gossip with several serious conversations filled the spaces between the seated men and women. Bryant sat silently, his face inscrutable, his dark eyes unmoving, looking to all gathered there like a garish piece of pop art in his haphazard attire of ill-fitting suit, floppy suspenders and oversized tie knotted loosely around his neck, which still bore discolored marks from Marcus Wright's inhumanly-strong fingers. He felt like an outcast in the group.

The air in the building was stale and dry, aggravating Bryant's lungs. His asthma had gotten worse since the disastrous raid on John and Sarah Connor's safehouse last month. He coughed up a wad of phlegm into a tissue and balled it up to dispose of later. He'd adopted the habit of carrying a small amount of tissues in his pocket since being discharged from the hospital. Bryant was a classic hypochondriac who perceived every little environmental change as a potential threat. His thoughts were never far from the possibility of his body being ravaged internally by radioactive particles from the war. He'd received potassium iodide supplements like nearly everybody else and monitored weekly by the Red Cross for signs of radiation poisoning and was declared healthy. But the dread always lurked in his belly. He found himself washing his hands a lot with whatever purified water he managed to obtain. And ate only canned or prepackaged foods.

Bryant forced some of the dread away and turned his thoughts back toward the events that led to his removal from the robbery/homicide division and into departmental limbo. Once the captain had been discharged from the hospital, the chief had personally debriefed him on the Baum/Connor assignment, including the inexplicable disappearance of Detective Deckard. He hadn't been fired for the debacle at the safehouse which resulted in the loss of over two dozen tactical squad members, but neither was he voted any confidence by the chief's office. He'd resigned himself to the possibility of forced retirement when the chief suddenly ordered a mandatory meeting of all the division heads, including Bryant. In fact, the chief requested that Bryant lead in the presentation regarding the events at the Connor safehouse. So Bryant prepared notes and girded himself for the meeting.

He looked over at Dave Holden sitting nearby, whose cherubic face had almost completely healed from the near-pulverizing hit that the skin-job masquerading as Brent Danford had leveled on him. Some discoloration remained, but Holden was as glowing and upbeat as he typically was. It wasn't until much later that both Bryant and Holden had learned that "Danford" was, in fact, an executed murderer named Marcus Wright. Bryant felt something small twist within as he wondered if Deckard, who'd worked closely with the false marshal, had known the truth about the man.

The LAPD chief and several of his staff suddenly entered the room and all conversations ceased. They were followed by a heavyset oriental man immaculately dressed in an expensive gray suit with graying hair and glasses and stood to the side of the chief's group. Another man, an older, weary-looking old-timer with pale, translucent flesh and disheveled, thinning hair, stood near the rear of the group. He was dressed plainly in a dark suit and white shirt with what looked like a briefcase in one hand. The chief approached a podium at the front and his granite face quickly surveyed the division commanders sitting silently in the room. It reminded Bryant of a squad meeting from older days.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen," he greeted in a high, reedy tone. "Thank you for assembling today on such short notice. I know we still have a lot of work to do to restore order in the city, and I'm impressed with the progress we've made and the limited civilian casualties reported. I've asked you all to attend this meeting because of a situation that we are now becoming aware of...one that I believe takes priority over most of the other things we're currently dealing with. I've asked Captain Harry Bryant to lead in our presentation and then I'm giving the floor to Dr. Toshiro Honda of the University of Tokyo for a good portion." He gestured to the sharp oriental man. "Dr. Honda is one of the world's foremost experts on advanced robotics and cybernetic biomechanical systems. The rest of the time will be given to Professor Martin Kampff of Stanford University, where he heads the Developmental Psychology department." He turned to glance at the weary-looking older man, who stared back humorlessly.

"I would pay serious attention to these three individuals as they will be speaking about a matter that is of growing concern...and may compel you to suspend your disbelief. As many of you may now be aware, this department was engaged in a search for a fugitive terrorist suspect named Sarah Connor, alias Sarah Baum, who was believed to be operating within the limits of Los Angeles County and in the State of California as a whole. She is believed to have been behind the tactical nuke bombing of the Financial District. Soon after that, the United States was attacked, resulting in a small nuclear war.

"Captain Harry Bryant was the lead investigator on the case with Detectives Rick Deckard and Dave Holden assisting federal agents. The investigation, through various bizarre twists, ended with the destruction of part of a hospital, the capture of three SWAT teams in south-central LA by Connor and her son, John, and a brutal gun battle between the Connors, our former police units, and an unidentified aggressor force in Topanga. And that was when the game suddenly changed."

The chief looked around all their faces, which suddenly looked attentive. He said, "We recovered a few of the burned bodies...or what was left of them...from the battle site. Thermite was used in an attempt to destroy them, but there were a few that were in some recoverable condition. What we discovered was enough to be convinced that we may be dealing with something far more serious than a small terrorist group. Something that may well be deemed a threat within the next few years.

"I was compelled, reluctantly at first, to reassign Captain Bryant from his former division to lead a new specialized police unit currently being developed. Please keep this in full confidentiality as none of this has been released to the public yet. This is the codename of the new unit." The front display then lit up with lettering superimposed over the LAPD logo:

PROJECT: BLADE RUNNER

_So that was it,_ Harry Bryant mused wickedly. Y_ou weren't firing me at all, you son of a bitch. But you're trying to bury me in a bureaucratic cesspool so deep I'll never be seen again. I should've taken retirement last year. Maybe I still can..._

"Captain Bryant, you may proceed," the chief said suddenly as he stepped away from the podium, nearly catching Bryant off guard. But the veteran cop composed himself and slowly got up to approach the podium. The LED display began a slow slideshow of images, first of Sarah Connor, then her son John, then images of the aftermath of the bombing of Cedars-Sinai, pausing with the cold, emotionless face of Marcus Wright.

"I know none of you may believe this personal recounting of the Baum investigation," Bryant began, "but I guarantee you that you won't forget any of it. Especially when I get to the part about a man coming back from the dead."

2

San Francisco, September, 2014

John Daniels was drunk.

He'd finished one bottle of Maker's Mark and had opened another, drinking the whiskey straight from the bottle. He sat alone in his office, behind his desk, staring blankly at computer readouts that displayed what was looking increasingly like gibberish to his alcohol-addled brain. It was eerily silent in the building, which suited Daniels just fine. He was in mourning.

Daniel Dyson had told him that there was no trace of DEUS in the system and that the Macrospace environment was completely offline. The loss of their multibillion dollar project, thirty years in the making, was unexplainable. Dyson had worked himself nearly to insanity trying to figure out what happened. None of the logs indicated any abnormalities with the AI up to its sudden disappearance. DEUS hadn't even been released into the World Wide Web yet, particularly after Andy Goode's breakdown, which had prompted Dyson to conduct further checks on the AI's stability on its release date. Dyson and his team were still combing through the system, hoping against hope that something...anything...could be recovered.

Twelve days (and six bottles of Kentucky whiskey) later, Daniels was no closer to sobriety and Dyson was no closer to locating DEUS. Cyberdyne-Kaliba still had enough operating cash reserves to function for the next few years but a sense of dread had pervaded the company. People went about their jobs but the sense of urgency had clearly diminished. Morale was sinking and few people smiled as they made their way through the campus. It was, a young engineer had wisecracked in the cafeteria one morning, as if somebody had shit in Cyberdyne's cereal.

Daniels didn't think the joke was funny when he'd finally heard it, but as he twisted the cap off his last bottle of bourbon, he recalled it and grinned maniacally in his dimly-lit office, nearly spraying the amber-colored liquid across his desk in a paroxysm of laughter. He thought it was hilarious. Utterly fucking hilarious. He wondered if Tyrell and the others would have found it funny and quickly dismissed the thought. _Not that sinister old fart,_ he thought sourly of Tyrell, who, Daniels was absolutely certain, was in a dark mood from the events reported from Topanga. With the disappearance of the Connors and Tyrell's quarry, Tyrell would be busy searching for some workaround, seething in a silent rage, searching for another way to bring his unholy experiments to fruition.

And, of course, the Others in the hidden committee he and Tyrell were a part of would not be pleased either. Daniels was sure he would receive a visitation from them in one fashion or another. And it would not be pleasant.

The doorbell to his office chimed and Daniels looked up from the bottle half-expecting his dread appearing in the doorway in the shape of a nightmare figure with a gun. He was instead surprised to see Daniel Dyson walk into the dim light from the bright hallway. Daniels frowned. He was sure the door had been locked.

He cleared his throat and in a rasp, greeted, "Daniel?"

"Call me Danny," the younger man said with eerie calm. His dark eyes glinted in the dim light of the office. "Should I call you Daniel?"

Daniels's brow furrowed. "It's _Mister_ Daniels," he corrected Dyson. Confusion seeped into his inebriation. He put the bottle down on the desk and asked, "How are things coming with DEUS? Any sign of it out there, Daniel?"

"I think we have something much more serious to discuss than chasing down a nonexistent computer consciousness," Dyson said. "And please call me Danny. I think it's more appropriate, in light of what I've come to dread knowing the truth about." The door automatically closed behind Dyson. His ebony features seemed to glow in the dusky air. His voice took on a harder edge as he said, "I know the truth about us, Daniel, and I'd like for you to confirm it. One man to another."

"What are you talking about?" Daniels rasped. He cleared his throat again and said, "What's gotten into you, son?"

Dyson slowly lowered himself into a chair opposite the older man. "_You_ did, actually...and it's more like..._grandson_, isn't it?" He let the words hang in the air for a moment before saying, "So far you're not denying anything."

Daniels stared into Dyson's eyes for what felt like centuries and closed his own, feeling the weight of decades close around his core like a claw, nodding his head slowly. When he opened them, Dyson's stare had turned malevolent. "When did you find out?" the older man asked quietly.

"Three days ago," Dyson said. He blinked slowly and smiled bitterly. "You asked me to turn over every stone looking for the DEUS matrix and I did. When I started getting frustrated looking for what I put thousands of hours of my life into helping create and coming up empty, I started checking file systems. I looked in Andy's first after hacking his password—it was easy, by the way, because he blurted it out a few weeks ago by accident when he was sedated—and of course found nothing. I checked all the other team members' document keepers with my admin privileges and came up empty. When I got really bored, I took a crack at yours."

Daniels swallowed dryly. "That file cluster has multiple encryption keys. And even if you knew them, there would still be no way you'd be able to access them..." Daniels's voice died the second the terrible realization washed over him. He slumped in his seat. "I forgot..." he murmured in near-defeat.

"The retina scan," said Dyson, his dark eyes boring like drills. "I launched a brute-force daemon that ran iterations of combinations at about ten petaflops. It cracked all your passcodes within seconds. But when the security protocol ran the eye scan, I was caught off guard, and was too late to block the scanner. It scanned my eye before I reacted quickly enough to try logging out and when it was completed, I sat there staring at the screen, not believing what I was seeing."

Daniels sighed. "You saw the name that displayed."

Dyson nodded. He briefly closed his eyes and replayed the moment, when the iris scan completed and the young programmer stared in stupefied disbelief at the words lit glaringly on the display: DANIELS, JOHN CONFIRMED

"Your name," Dyson said. "It confirmed something that I suspected for weeks now, since that day Andy and I completed the final checks on DEUS, when the AI seemed to act strangely and vanished, returning later to tell me that it had gone to meet John Connor in Macrospace. That day when you entered my locked office. They only way in was through an iris scan. At the time my mind was too preoccupied with what was going on with DEUS that I didn't think about it. But then this happens, and the pieces clicked together for me."

Dyson took a deep breath and said, almost whispering, "You...and me...are..."

"...the same," John Daniels completed for him.

The younger man stared. "How?"

John Daniels exhaled slowly, feeling the burn of the liquor in his throat, and said, "That's a long story."

"We have plenty of time," Dyson said, his eyes hardening.

3

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

"Feels like home again, doesn't it?"

Sarah Connor glanced up from the shotgun she was cleaning and saw her son, bare-chested and dressed in gray camouflage pants and boots, enter the living area of the bungalow through the front door. His scarred chest was glazed with sweat and marked by several fresh bruises. He'd been sparring with Hawkins and several other former cops who'd stayed on following the near-massacre in Topanga. John Connor had taken on calling the hardcore members of their resistance movement the Tech-Com group. He was just beginning to get used to being addressed as "General Connor" despite his younger age compared to most of the remaining men.

Sarah wiped the barrel of the shotgun with a cotton cloth and shrugged. "Here, there, doesn't matter. Anywhere we get to breathe for five minutes feels like home to me," she replied. "We weren't here for very long when we lived here."

John walked into the small kitchen, got a _cerveza_ from the refrigerator and twisted the cap off. "I know," he said, taking a sip of the beer. "But this town felt more like home than almost anywhere else we stayed. I think we lived here longer than any other town."

Sarah gave the shotgun a final inspection, sighed in approval and carefully secured it in its case. John was right. Ever since they sneaked across the border and rumbled down Highway One through Baja she'd felt the familiar easing on her shoulders that comes from becoming reacquainted with former surroundings, especially when that feeling is coupled with the knowledge that the danger one fled from is far behind. Mexico was her and John's home for roughly five years before going further south to El Salvador and Nicaragua to pursue more lucrative work in her fledgling profession as a mercenary.

She'd first crossed the border nearly thirty years ago while eight months pregnant with John, her first real exposure to Baja culture coming in the form of a Polaroid photo taken of her by an enterprising young boy at his grandfather's service station. The kid buttered her up by calling her a very beautiful _se__ñ__orita_ and claiming that if he didn't ask her to pay for the photo, his grandfather would beat him.

Sarah grudgingly admired the boy's hustling and paid him four dollars for the photo. Long faded and dog-eared, it lay nestled among her belongings she'd picked up along the way on their hasty exodus from California. She briefly pulled the image from memory and smiled wistfully at her youth, augmented by her flowering motherhood, her hair pulled back, her eyes staring into a cloudy distance on the same highway they'd recently traveled on as she dictated into a tape recorder's microphone her most important message to her unborn son, revealing the truth about his father, a truth she'd never intended for him to know until he was old enough to understand.

John learned his father's identity some time after Sarah had been captured and incarcerated at Pescadero, having discovered it through her tapes that the state had given his first foster parents. The knowledge, while not exactly forbidden, had hooked itself into his mind like talons that sank deep into flesh, and he'd suppressed it to a back corner of his consciousness, refusing to believe it. By the time he'd passed into the care of Todd and Janelle, he'd disregarded his mother as a lunatic and came to regard everything told to him as a lie. He'd rebelled against every set of foster parents he'd passed through, engaging in juvenile crime, banishing every trace of respect for any figure of authority from his persona.

Than "Uncle Bob" came along, out of a Tesla coil of otherworldly plasma one night, his Terminator protector sent back from the future, and suddenly everything Sarah had told her son was viscerally true. And John Connor finally accepted the truth about his father, Kyle Reese. The same Kyle who traveled with them as a boy no older than John once was when he was confronted by the truth. His life was different in this corrupted timeline that they existed in, but he was still the same Kyle she'd fallen in love with that night nearly three decades in the past. She'd seen the look on her son's face when he clasped hands with the young Kyle in the hospital, saw the wondrous glow of life return to John when he saw his father alive again.

She heard John calling her name and she suddenly realized her eyes were closed. She opened them and saw her son staring at her quizzically. "You okay, Mom?" he asked.

She nodded her head and smiled. "Yeah. Was just thinking."

He sipped his beer and asked, "About what?"

She shrugged and said, "About...everything." She looked out the window at the street the house stood on. It was partly cloudy and temperate. The effects of Judgment Day hadn't reached into Mexico with the severity it had dealt to the rest of the northern hemisphere, but they were still felt. The morning had been very cold but it had warmed up in the early afternoon. Most of the group had no complaints about the weather in Mexico, especially after the harrowing crossing from California, which had very nearly collapsed into a full-blown shootout east of Tijuana with border cops. If it hadn't been for Cameron's seductive wiles with a couple of guards, distracting them just long enough for John and his group to quickly disarm and overwhelm the border station, most or all of them would have been arrested or killed before escaping into Baja.

Their journey into Baja was not without peril, either, and, of course, when one is leading a caravan of SWAT trucks and two heavy spinner vehicles over the border into a foreign nation, it tends to raise all kinds of questions by the natives. They'd very nearly been detained by local police when passing through El Rosario and a few other small towns on the way but John's mastery of Spanish, reinforced by Marcus Wright's ease in posing as a federal agent, managed to get them out of the potential jams. Sarah was also thankful that a friend, Carlos Salceda, was still available to help them the rest of the way, using his resources (and a few of his own nefarious contacts) to help them get further south.

For the moment, they were safe. But the Grays, the traitors to humanity who'd somehow followed John back from the machine-ravaged future he'd barely escaped from, were in positions of power and growing stronger. They'd soon discover where their targets had fled to and would be pursuing them, if they hadn't already begun. John had something they wanted, and there was the matter her son had told her concerning his harrowing rescue of Cameron from the clutches of the rogue AI dubbed The Beast, revealed to be a twisted, more vengeful, version of Skynet.

While John had assured his mother that Skynet was no longer a threat, unease continued to lurk in her chest concerning the machine menace. The Grays had attempted to rebuild their machine god in their own image once. She was sure they'd try again in their near-fanatical desire to create a near-omniscient, near-omnipotent deity they could control. And Tyrell was seemingly hellbent on getting his hands on John's cyborg protector-lover and the secrets of possible immortality her flesh contained. Not to mention they were all wanted by the US government and LAPD for various crimes that were necessary to commit in order to survive.

Suddenly the lithe subject of Sarah's thoughts entered through the front door behind John. He turned to see Cameron Phillips strolling nonchalantly into the living room, an AR-15 slung tightly around her shoulder. She was dressed in her black leather jacket, black tank top and faded, fraying blue jeans tucked into combat boots. Her blond-brown hair was washed but windblown and hung haphazardly around her face. Her battle injuries to her flesh covering had completely healed. John always smiled impulsively when she came into his field of vision. She immediately caught his look and smiled sweetly back at him. He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Thank you, John," Cameron said pleasantly, her mocha eyes sparkling in the mottled light. She quickly inspected his physique and frowned. "You've been bruised, John. I detect a micro-fracture on your bottom-left vertebrochondral rib, close to the cartilage. You should scale back your personal combat training to allow that to heal." She shifted her gaze to Sarah and said, "Hi, Sarah. You look great today." Sarah smiled self-consciously and nodded.

John grinned, took hold of Cameron, said, "I'll heal fine, babe," and pressed his lips against hers, kissing her intently. Cameron let out a strange gasp and almost seemed to giggle as she returned the kiss, nearly dropping the rifle from her shoulder. Sarah suppressed the urge to grimace.

"I missed you," John said when he finally pulled away from her smiling face. He could scarcely believe how beautiful his cyborg protector and lover still looked, four years after nearly losing her forever. She noted his entranced gaze and smiled in response, her cheeks filling. John held her close to him, breathing in her musky scent, the odd yet pleasant smell of peaches reaching his nostrils from her cascading hair.

A multitude of emotions overcame him and he shook involuntarily as he held her, burying his face in the side of her neck, feeling her suddenly jump as he pressed his lips against her skin. He grinned and felt his eyes welling with joy.

"I can hardly believe I have you back," he whispered in her ear.

"I never left you," she whispered in return, gently pulling his face up to look in his eyes. "And here we are, together again, John."

He smiled, kissed her again and asked, "Did you have a nice patrol?" He was dimly aware of how ludicrous the question might have sounded to a human. Patrols were seldom pleasant. But Cameron wasn't human.

Cameron smiled, tilted her head slightly and said, "It was pleasant enough. The perimeter is clear of any threats I could detect, human or otherwise. I did have some assistance by the local police, and they seemed very cooperative. I had a nice conversation with one named Esteban, and he showed me photos of his family. Three young children, two boys and one girl. They're very beautiful. He asked me to thank you for helping to provide protection for the town from the drug cartels and _banditos_."

Sarah looked incredulously at John. "You told them we're helping them protect the village? Are you nuts, John? We're trying to lay as low as we can and you're playing sheriff? And what if somebody remembers us from four years ago?"

John shrugged and went over to a pile of clothes that had been brought in from hanging outside. He threw on a frayed black tee shirt and said, "We're not strutting around like the _Magnificent Seven_, so don't worry. I agreed to it as a favor for them letting us stay here. The mayor seems to appreciate us being here, and so far nobody seems to recognize me. The town seems happy we're here anyway. Drug and criminal activity sharply dropped soon after we rolled into town."

"Approximately 48.3%," Cameron said, checking over her weapon. "Many of the town's citizens are very happy to have us here, Sarah, and more than half have offered to quarter our men, even providing what medical care they can give. Coming here was not as bad an idea as you initially thought."

_And maybe you can open up a dance academy here and offer their kids lessons,_ Sarah thought sardonically. She had always regarded Cameron with a significant measure of distrust, particularly since the car bombing by the Armenians. Even after John somehow "fixed" her damaged chip and the machine had overridden her Skynet programming to kill him, Cameron's noticeable tics and glitches following the incident always gave Sarah pause before totally accepting her into the Connor fold. Derek Reese's (_the old Derek,_ she quickly reminded herself) near-pathological hatred of the female Terminator for sins not altogether understood also added fuel to the flames of discord.

"Where are Kyle and Derek?" Sarah asked, changing the subject. "I haven't seen them since last night."

John finished his beer and said, "They're with Barnes, I think, drilling with some of the other guys just outside town. Kyle's been feeling a lot better. Doc Brewster thinks we treated him in time to prevent further damage. Derek's out there with them." He stared blankly into the empty bottle, his lips turned into a frown.

"What is it, John?" Sarah asked, noting his troubled look.

John sighed. "It's James and Savannah. Ever since they got back from retrieving Matt Murch they've been...withdrawn. They haven't been participating in a lot of the daily activities since we got here...instead, they've been more involved with the church in town, which I don't have a problem with, but..." John left the remainder hang dying in the vapid air.

"They're not a part of the group anymore," said Sarah.

"Yeah."

"Did you try talking to them?"

"A few times. James insists there's nothing wrong and Savannah agrees. I just left it at that but they're definitely clamming up." He looked away and said, "I know what it is. It's about Sandra."

"And Derek and Kyle, no doubt," Sarah quietly said. She stood before John and Cameron with her arms crossed. "John, we can't afford to have divisions in the group. If somebody's thinking about leaving, we should just tell them to get stepping now before they start causing trouble. Of all people, I never thought it'd be Ellison and Weaver's kid."

"I'll talk to them again," John promised.

"Fractures among us can become a huge problem," said Cameron, looking back and forth between them. "The longer such a situation goes unaddressed, the more difficult it will become to resolve, and it may be necessary to remove the discontented parties."

John blinked. "'Remove?'"

"Yes," said Cameron. "You yourself were compelled to make examples of several of your officers in the war against Skynet, particularly with General Perry. He publicly opposed your decision to employ Terminators who voluntarily chose to turn against Skynet, and you had him executed after a court martial. You couldn't afford divisions in your rank and file, with the tide beginning to turn in our favor. You were harshly criticized by many among your staff, but eventually they accepted your decision as just."

John shook his head vehemently. "Cameron...that wasn't me."

"Yes, it was, John," she insisted. "A different timeline, of course, but it was you. You are capable of making difficult command decisions to ensure victory, even now."

"I'd never order the execution of somebody to make an example of him!" John shouted. Sarah caught the briefest of movements by the machine and smirked, amused by the sight of Cameron flinching. John also noted it, and he softened his tone. "Killing isn't always the answer, Cameron. You start doing that and nobody will ever trust you again. There are other ways to deal with disobedience or insubordination, like-"

"Like what, John?" Sarah shot. "Prison? We don't have the luxury of considering that."

"No," John said. "We expel them."

Cameron stared blankly at him. Sarah rolled her eyes and said, "That simple, huh? We just kick them out."

John shrugged. "I offered that to the cops and most of them joined us. You deal with a situation like this with compassion, not brutality."

"That didn't always work," Cameron said, hefting her weapon. Her eyes turned vapid, her face taking on what John's old friend Morris had called her "scary robot" face. John frowned. It was something that she hadn't done while inhabiting Macrospace with John Henry.

"Sometimes you have to make that difficult choice, John," she continued. "I witnessed many prisoners be released out of mercy only to find them fighting on the side of the machines later...usually not against their will. But we may have a more urgent problem. I've overheard discussions between Ellison and Doctor Brewster and several others." Concern clouded Cameron's face. "They were held in private but they aren't aware how acute my hearing is. I can pick up sounds from over two kilometers away. Mr. Ellison and his daughter were discussing the possibility of forming a separate resistance from us with several former policemen, and they're particularly displeased with the possibility that you placed my welfare above that of the others."

"Whoa, wait a minute, you're telling me all this now?"

"I heard it this morning while patrolling," Cameron said. "Savannah sees you as reckless, John...and many of the men view me, Sarah and Marcus as threats."

"_Threats?_ Why?"

"Because we're machines, John!" Sarah spat. The venom in her words made John wince. Her breathing came in tortured bursts. "We can't be trusted because we used to work directly for the enemy, and there's the other possibility that I know you hadn't considered...but Bedell pointed out to me in private."

"What was that?" asked John.

Sarah said, "We're being tracked."

4

Kate Brewster stood straight and silent against the hazy sky on the ridge by Dejalo's Catholic church. Crooked rows of headstones flanked her lone figure like hunched stone sentinels standing mournful watch over the cemetery's hallowed ground she stood on. She'd been staring at the freshly-dug grave where her mother had been buried, her head hung low, her chest aching with the cold emptiness that always accompanies irrevocable loss.

She'd been nearly inconsolable in her grief since James Ellison had returned to Topanga cradling Sandra Brewster's lifeless body in his arms. Kate had screamed and screamed until her throat was raw and her sobs came out in raspy croaks as Ellison laid the body before her and held her at the bunker's entrance for a moment before literally carrying her back inside to escape the descending fallout from Judgment Day's nuclear exchange. Blair Williams took her to a private room and held her tightly for hours, never letting go of Kate until the former veterinarian cried all her tears out and choked herself to sleep. Blair was still with her when she awoke four hours later, half-asleep, still holding Kate's hand.

Kate demanded to know how her mother died. Blair wearily told her what had happened at the diner. She told Kate what Ellison had told her, about the gunfight with the rogue militiamen, Derek's lethal moment of indecision, and how Sandra Brewster had saved him when she pushed him out of the way of the gunman's bullets, sacrificing her life for his. All that to find a computer programmer who had something to help bring back John Connor's precious mechanical girlfriend.

Ellison had her mother's wrapped body carefully loaded in the back of one of the SWAT trucks and the agonizing decision to either bury it on site or burned with the bodies of Tyrell's N1 aggressor force was quickly settled when John Connor announced they were all crossing the border into Mexico. Sandra Brewster's final resting place would be found there. When they'd finally arrived in Dejalo, a dusty little town in the middle of Baja, Connor made it a point to quickly speak with the church authorities about burying their dead.

The priest of the fortress-like church had graciously agreed to allow interment at the parish's cemetery. Sandra had been a Baptist but the small, middle-aged priest paid no mind to that fact and conducted a moving funeral service for her and the other fallen in Spanish. James Ellison concluded with a sermon and passage from Psalm 34, extolling all gathered there to cherish their loved ones and dedicate their hearts to remember who they had lost.

Everyone in Connor's group attended, even Cameron, who observed the event with a detached curiosity. None of the SWAT troopers had known Sandra but a few of them wept openly. The bulk of the cops' grief had been reserved for their fallen comrades, including Officer Harris, who had suffered the longest in his slow descent into death from his wounds. There was not a dry eye in the congregation when the funeral rites were completed, except for Cameron's. She looked on with a troubled expression, as if she could not understand what was going on.

Savannah had broken down and bawled like a baby when Sandra Brewster's casket began its slow descent into the earth. Kate looked on with a vacant stare, nearly in waxy catatonia. John Connor and Marcus Wright had been two of the pallbearers, and they'd helped lower Sandra's funeral bed. Connor had looked in Kate's weary, hollow eyes only once before quickly glancing away. The glimpse of shame in his dark eyes was enough for Kate Brewster to regard him with utter contempt.

The sound of quiet footsteps approaching broke her silent mourning. Kate turned around to see Marcus walking toward her. Most of his injuries had completely healed and he stood before her looking sad, clad in faded, frayed dark jeans and a white tee shirt, his handsome features appearing craggy as he frowned. The human-machine hybrid stood against the horizon a strong, tall figure, seemingly holding up the sky with his presence.

"Hey," he said.

Kate said, "Hi."

Marcus's dark eyes were sad and Kate felt her heart sink when she looked into them. "Kate...I'm so sorry," he said slowly. "Your mother...Sandra...she was a very wonderful woman. I...we will all miss her. I'm...sorry."

A cathartic sob escaped her throat and Kate closed her eyes, nodding, feeling her tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Marcus reached out to gently wipe them with his fingers but she impulsively stepped back, startled. She was immediately ashamed of her action and shook her head, wiping her cheeks herself. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just...I can't..." The words wouldn't come to her lips with any logic, and she silently cursed herself for her timidity, her vulnerability. She hadn't meant to flinch.

She sighed, took a breath, let it out, and said, "I'm not doing anyone any good standing here feeling worry for myself." She began to turn around when Marcus suddenly said, "Kate?"

She turned to face him. "Yeah?"

He looked into her reddened eyes and tenderly said, "Don't be ashamed to mourn. I mourn for my brother every day. What you're seeing here..." He pointed at his chest. "This looks a lot stronger than it really is. Inside my heart is always in pain. What you're doing is something that I somehow can't do, Kate. I can't cry. But I feel no shame or scorn for what you're going through. We've both lost family. In a way, you're grieving for my loss, too...and I thank you."

Kate began to say something but suddenly felt her knees weaken. Her body shook and she abruptly began to collapse to the ground. Marcus moved forward with astonishing speed and caught her, gently lowering her to the hallowed earth. He knelt beside her and held her close, feeling her clutch his shirt as she trembled.

"It isn't fair!" she screamed, her anguished cry echoing across the ridge. "I lost my father in the war and now my mother! God _damn_ it, Marcus, I'm an orphan now! I don't have anybody else to call family and I really need my mother right now! I just..." Her voice caught and she buried herself in his chest, sobbing. "Oh...God..."

Marcus held her tightly and gently pulled her up to stand with him. He brushed her disheveled hair from her face and smiled sadly. "Kate...it's okay. I don't know what to say to you and I know that nothing I say or do is going to bring your mother back or take this pain from you." He looked at her gently and said, "I'll do this for you, though...I'll be your pain. You want to take a while and scream and pound away at me, even if it's all day long...I'll let you do that. But Kate...you won't be able to do that forever. We all have to move on past it...someday...someway."

She sniffled and nodded, then a thought came to her, a question that had nearly escaped her. "Marcus...why did you come here?"

Marcus looked surprised, looked away, then down, then into her eyes and said, "I was...I was getting worried about you."

Kate was about to say something but her voice caught in her throat and she nearly choked. She looked away from him and cleared her throat before asking, "What made you worry?"

Marcus put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. He looked in her eyes and his mouth formed a small smile. "I looked for you at the town hospital, thought you may have been working there. Then checked at the hotel, and didn't think to look here until later. I was...concerned."

Kate took a tiny step toward him. "Why?"

Marcus suddenly looked uncomfortable. He looked away and Kate could see his cheeks glow pink. In spite of her grief, she very nearly chuckled when she saw the hybrid warrior blush. "Because...I...well, I was...um..." he fumbled, looking embarrassed.

Kate finally smiled, feeling her despair melt away in the warmth of her mirth and amusement. Where others saw a potentially dangerous cyborg killer, Kate Brewster saw nothing else in Marcus Wright except for his tormented humanity, his pain of knowing what lay beneath his flesh. Despite the scars and other signs of damage that he bore on his skin like terrible badges, Kate was nevertheless drawn to his rugged handsomeness and gentle blue eyes that gazed tenderly into hers. To her, he was the best example she'd ever witnessed in a man, strong and ruthless when he needed to be, gentle and considerate when he wanted to be. And even beneath all that...a tenderness that melted away every bit of his hardened shell, revealing a heart that loved in spite of its unending agony. There was nothing machine-like about him at all to her.

Kate closed the gap and reached for his face. He was amazingly warm and his blue eyes seemed to glow as she pulled him toward her and kissed him, holding him tightly against her stirring body. Marcus stiffened at first but quickly responded to her, gripping her firmly but gently, coaxing her mouth open with his tongue, tasting her curiously, then passionately. Kate broke away from him momentarily, stared into his confused eyes, breathing huskily.

"Come with me," she whispered, taking him by the hand. She led him away from the cemetery and toward the rear of the church. The building was empty except for the priest, who was in the sanctuary practicing his recital for the coming Mass in Spanish and Latin. Kate tried the door to the rear exit and found it locked. Marcus carefully broke open the door and they quietly entered. Marcus opened the door to the vestry and Kate shut it behind them.

"Do you think he heard us?" Kate asked, almost giddy.

Marcus shook his head. "He's partially deaf from what John told me. I doubt he'd hear even a truck go by."

"Good," Kate huffed as she removed her shirt. She hastily unhooked her bra and threw herself back into Marcus's arms, feeling his body responding to hers, awakening, his breath coming in short bursts. Kate's hands locked themselves around his face and they held each other in time and space for a tiny age, staring into each other's eyes, twin galaxies merging in celestial glory.

"I love you, Kate," Marcus whispered as he tenderly gripped her thighs, pulling her jeans down, feeling himself nearly bursting from his jeans, then nearly laughing in delight as he felt her hands slide from his face to his chest, caressing on their way down to his belt buckle as she unfastened it, giving her access to him. He gasped as Kate opened his pants, freeing him.

"Marcus Wright," she whispered, kissing him. "Make love to me."

He did.

5

"I did consider that," John said. "I had Cameron scan you and Marcus and she couldn't detect any kind of GPS transmitter or other form of tracking device. You're clean." He glanced at Cameron, who nodded.

"So how the hell do you explain how the bastards located us in Topanga? Nobody knew about the fallout shelter, and even if somebody did, that doesn't explain why a dozen heavily armed N1 goons from Tyrell were sent instead of LAPD or the army. No, John, they knew exactly where we were. And that means we have a traitor among us." Sarah's dark green eyes smoldered.

John suddenly felt cold and goose pimples erupted on his arms. "And you think it's James or Savannah? I don't believe it for a second. They have every reason to fight the Grays like we do."

Sarah shrugged. "Who the hell knows? Maybe your buddy Matt. Or Bedell. Or Barnes. Or any one of the ex-cops with us. All I know is that we were quickly located. Come on, John, get your head out of your ass! Something or someone tipped them off!"

John stared at his mother, glanced at a bewildered Cameron, looked back at Sarah and said, "And what are you implying, Mom? That I have my head up my ass where Cameron is concerned? That's it, isn't it? You're agreeing with James and Savannah that I lost focus on the war because I was more interested in saving Cameron? Tell me I'm wrong, Mom."

Sarah shook her head. "No, John...what I'm saying is that you have loose ends that are unraveling...and sooner or later everything will come completely undone if you don't pay attention."

"She's right, John," Cameron said, almost whispering.

John shook his head slowly and held his right hand up in passive defiance. "I can't believe we're even having this talk, but I'm making one thing clear right now...as long as I'm in command here, whether in this timeline or another, I don't care...nobody's getting terminated. Imprisoned, maybe. Horsewhipped in public, maybe. Given a bag of crackers and kicked out, probably. But I'm not a killer. Leave the mole hunt to Martin. If there's a snitch, we'll deal with it quickly. In the meantime I'm going to talk to James and Savannah and anyone else who's been grumbling lately and we're going to sort it out peacefully. We'll all stick together like a family or we all go our separate ways and surrender. Is that understood?"

"Yes," Cameron said quickly, drawing a glaring look from Sarah. She was about to retort when a sudden fatigue nearly overtook her and she sighed. "Okay," she said. "We'll do things your way, John. I'm going to shower. Cameron, you did a radiation analysis on the town's water, and...?"

"The water supply coming into town is relatively safe," Cameron said, her eyes flashing blue for a microsecond. "I detected trace amounts of deuterium and strontium, well below human tolerance levels. Water samples I tested indicate less than one percent of radioactive material per milliliter, well within safety limits. No medical issues have been reported among the town's inhabitants." She caught a smirk from John and she looked quizzically back at him, pouting.

"Fine," Sarah said, stretching as she approached the bathroom. "Something to be thankful for, right?" she muttered under her breath. The unpleasant queasiness rumbled through her bowels again and fatigue nearly overtook her. She stumbled against the door frame and before she knew it she was in the firm, inhuman grip of the female cyborg. Cameron had covered the distance between her spot and Sarah in just two strides, astonishing John with her speed as she was on Sarah in a flash, taking hold of his mother's arm and gently walking her to the toilet.

"Sit, Sarah," Cameron gently commanded as she helped Sarah lower herself to the toilet seat and set her AR-15 against the wall at the same time in total efficiency of motion. John bounded into the bathroom and was shocked by his mother's sudden pallor, her weakness. Sarah leaned forward and said, "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"You may bring very little up, considering you've barely eaten the past two days," said Cameron as her HUD blazed to life and her sensors bombarded Sarah in a series of bio-physiological scans, her on-board tomographic and electromagnetic spectrometers probing every inch of Sarah Connor's body, from her metal-and-plastic cybernetic implants to her living tissues, reaching even to the genetic-molecular level. All her readings indicated something was very wrong, compounded by her multiple organ failure and high white cell count. In a nanosecond Cameron knew where the problem lay: blood.

Before either human could react, Cameron whipped out a switchblade and, as gently as a whisper, drew a tiny bit of blood from Sarah's hand, ignoring John's protests as she brought the blood drop closer to her eyes and scanned the tiny crimson globule for a moment, seemingly mystified.

Cameron finally looked away from the blood drop and washed her hands in the sink. She slowly turned to look at John and said, "John, I need to speak with you in private." Her eyes glowed a pale blue in the dim light of the bathroom.

"What about?" Sarah croaked. "If it's about my health, I have a right to know!"

Cameron looked almost pleadingly into her lover's dark eyes. John looked at her, then at Sarah, and after a long moment said, "She's right, Cameron. My mother has a right to know what's going on with her. And if you're still under my original command authority despite not having a protection mission anymore, I can order you to address both of us."

"Unnecessary," Cameron said coldly, her voice suddenly shifting to a robotic monotone, drawing a surprised glare from John, and he nearly flinched. In that infinitesimal second, John no longer saw his cyborg lover, instead seeing a near-image of the killer machine that had reverted to its original Skynet programming following the car bombing.

The moment quickly passed, but John's chest remained tight, his muscles tensed, his belly cold from that quick and terrible descent into an uncanny valley. In that split second, he'd been looking into the icy, merciless eyes of a stranger.

Cameron paused for a few seconds before speaking. When she did, her tone turned almost sorrowful as she quietly said to Sarah, "The nuclei of your white blood cells are severely damaged and your marrow is producing an abnormally-large amount of them. You have stage four acute myelogenous leukemia, Sarah. I became suspicious of it when I saw how much weight you lost over the past three weeks, coupled with your loss of appetite and decreasing physical activity. Even with the enhanced immunity and tissue repair systems integrated by Tyrell, it's untreatable. I estimate roughly three months before the disease overtakes you." She looked up from Sarah to John and her eyes turned reproachful.

"I'm...I'm sorry," Cameron whispered and ran past a stunned John Connor, disappearing out the front door into the stale, dry Mexican air, the sound of her sobs receding in the distance.

6

Los Angeles, September, 2014

"The phenomenon is called 'the uncanny valley,' gentlemen, and it's a very abstract and very difficult concept to understand, but you all need to have a contextual grasp of it, if you are to be successful in detecting this potential new threat."

Bryant's recounting of last month's events was long over, but everything he bore witness to concerning the failed SWAT raid on the Connor house was still as fresh in his mind as yesterday. The gathered policemen and city officials had sat in rapt attention to his story, and when he was done, he nearly had to be helped back to his seat due to his asthma flaring up again. The Jap robotics professor, Honda, had put nearly everyone to sleep with his (ironically) robotic presentation on the emerging trends in biomechanical technology and its effects on humanity. Bryant had forgotten most of the lecture but had gleaned a few interesting tidbits.

The behavioral scientist, Kampff, was more straightforward and spoke in a loud, direct tone which awoke all who'd nearly dozed off listening to the robotics professor. Frail as he looked, his oratory nonetheless packed a punch. Bryant guessed that not too many of his students fell asleep when he was teaching.

"Imagine, if you will," Professor Kampff began, "A humanoid machine that is identical to a human being in every way, essentially a clone, although its existence since the day of its creation has been to perform the most menial human tasks that we don't feel like doing. A slave, in other words, which is what the Czech word, _robota_, basically means. It means "to labor." In fact, the robots of the play _Rossum's Universal Robots_ were in fact conceived of as replicated copies of human beings, created to serve the will of humans.

"Imagine that this humanoid robot, a perfect imitation of a human being, decides that he doesn't like serving people and escapes. Now you have a fugitive humanoid machine hiding among the human populace, almost completely undetectable to the human senses as a machine. It walks, talks, acts, and looks human. How would you determine that it's not human?"

Holden shrugged and said, "Some kind of test, right?" A few other heads nodded.

"Yes. But how would you test it?"

"Blow its head off and look for a product label among the pieces," Bryant cracked, and a few chuckles rippled through the room. Kampff did not look amused. Bryant stopped smiling.

"Gentlemen, the implication is that this machine is essentially a copy of a human being, and as such you cannot distinguish it from a real person," Kampff impatiently said. "If you misidentify it, you may inadvertently find yourself destroying a human. As police officers, you're tasked with protecting the citizens of your community from crime and civic disorder. But now you have a human-like imposter among you, undetectable by conventional means and intending to do harm, possibly. Its DNA is virtually identical to a human's, its blood is identical, its bones, tissues, flesh...all identical. A clone, for all intents and purposes...but there will be nonhuman characteristics. Namely, its brain, as it will be modified to handle thought processes at an accelerated rate. Its strength may also be modified for the type of labor for which it was designed. But you won't be able to know that."

"Just what are you getting at here, professor?" the chief suddenly cut in. "We've identified the remains we recovered from Topanga as being part-machine. They definitely had mechanical elements. Common metal detectors could pick them up. Now you're talking about human-like robots. What makes you think that such a...thing...may be walking the streets in the immediate future? Or may be out there right now?"

"It's inevitable," Kampff replied immediately, looking into the gathered faces. "Biotechnology has been moving in this direction for decades, as explained by Dr. Honda earlier. Captain Bryant himself had a dangerous encounter with a machine that was mostly made in the image of humanity. But as machines become more human-like, whether appearing physically human-like or completely computerized, it will become absolutely necessary to attempt to identify with them, to prevent yourself from becoming hostile toward them, to learn how to 'empathize' with them on the same level that you do with your fellow humans. To exist in harmony, more or less, with them without distrust or revulsion at their attempt to present themselves as 'human.'

"The whole point in attempting to create a human-like machine is to prevent humans from entering _bukimi no tani_...the 'uncanny valley.' The term was coined by Masahiro Mori, a professor of robotics who first noticed the phenomenon when the first human-looking robots were being developed. It's a point that is reached in human-machine relations when a mechanical being becomes so human-like that it becomes virtually indistinguishable from a human, yet still exhibits a subtle machine nature and it creates a feeling of discomfort in people's emotional responses to it. The dip in comfort you feel is that valley.

"But this is my personal conflict: I am a developmental psychologist with a specialty in cybernetic systems. My field is to study emotional interactions between intelligent organisms, both living and artificial, to help create a better world between pure thought and pure feeling. I am being asked by your department to help you track down potentially rogue machines that look and act like us for possible execution or imprisonment if necessary. I cannot tell you how much this distresses me, but I will nevertheless assist you with identifying them for the LAPD's new Blade Runner unit. What you do afterward I shall try to expurgate from my conscience.

"So now I will explore with you the mechanics behind detecting what may not wish to be detected, using methods both cognitive and practical. But when you begin your detection process, you will need to call upon all your empathy to attempt to identify with your subject to strip away any possibility that the person seated across from you is not human. Because...and this will sound completely paradoxical...you will need to try to become more human than the human you're interacting with to detect any trace of a machine nature."

"What purpose will that serve?" one of the department heads asked.

Professor Kampff let out a long sigh. "Because when you are trying to determine if the human isn't human...you will need to enter the uncanny valley."

7

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

James Ellison said, "I don't expect anybody here to join us. In fact, if none of you do, that's fine. My daughter and I are still leaving John's group."

They were gathered in a crumbling garage at an abandoned service station by the highway. Ellison stood next to Savannah, who was seated on a rotting engine block. She was busy loading 9mm rounds into Beretta magazines. Standing in front of the former ZeiraCorp CEO were Hawkins, Thompson, and three other former policemen: Rodriguez, Jackson, and Hall. Matt Murch hung back in the rear, uncertainty creeping into his pale features.

Jackson, a stocky, powerfully-built black man with a shaven head, looked around and asked, "So we're here to talk about running? I thought we were here to talk about implementing a change in command."

"We're here to discuss options," Ellison said, folding his arms. "The situation has gotten a lot more complicated now with Connor reactivating his cyborg assassin. She's far more advanced than the Tyrell Corporation's goons that you just fought not long ago...and she's considerably stronger and more durable than most of them, too." Memories of Cameron Phillips tossing him around his home like a rag doll after she and John paid him a visit following his theft of Cromartie's damaged body from the desert flooded into his mind. He could scarcely believe that such a petite figure could be that strong.

"I just can't believe that he'd lead us to harm," Hawkins said. He looked around for support. He was met by vapid hostility from Savannah's face, the clicking of bullets into the magazine she held punctuating her contempt. Nevertheless, he pressed, "General Connor got us safely here. I just don't see him throwing us under the bus for his mechanical girlfriend."

"She's creepy, man," said Hall. He ran a hand through his thinning blond hair and shuddered. "The way she looks at you, did you see that? Every time I met her, she almost looked like she wanted to put a bullet through my head. Or anybody's."

"You said she she's one of these killer robots, these...Terminators?" Thompson asked Ellison. "And she's from the future?"

"A possible future, according to John," James Ellison acknowledged. "But the fact remains that John has for several years harbored this disturbing obsession with Cameron. She came from the future to protect him from Skynet, a computer system bent on exterminating us. Somehow, in the future, John is commanding the human resistance, comes close to defeating it, and it sends these Terminators back in time to wipe him out before the war. But John and his men capture a time machine in the future and send back warriors to protect him and his friends. One of his protectors was Cameron, and I think John at some point began to fall in love with her."

"She can't possibly love him or anyone else, Dad," Savannah said. She'd finished loading her Beretta, checked the safety, and shoved it down the back of her jeans. "She's a machine. If she shows feelings, she's faking them." She glanced into the faces of the gathered men and said, "We can't trust her and we can't trust John Connor. If he fell in love with her, he's crazy. And don't think for a second that I forgot about how he almost killed you back at the house because you hid her body from him, Dad."

James quietly sighed. It was a subject that he was loathe to recall, but the fight between him and John Connor had opened a fissure in the team, one that had festered like an open wound until the shootout at the diner and Sandra Brewster's death ripped it wide open. Until then, when he retreated to the diner's bathroom to let his emotions flow like the water from the faucet, not a single thought of leaving the team or planning a _coup d'etat_ had entered his mind. He was largely in favor of simply taking Savannah, loading up the Explorer with supplies and leaving, with or without John's blessing.

Savannah wanted to depose the Resistance leader for reasons that were made all-too-plain to James. He knew she wanted him to take command of the group. She believed in him with a devotion that bordered almost on fanaticism. James honestly didn't know if he'd even be up to the task.

But if their little coup worked, he would do it. For his daughter's safety.

His thoughts were interrupted by the squeaky voice of Matt Murch from the back: "If she's anything like the rogue AI that tried to destroy John Henry down in the lab that one day, Mr. Ellison, then we definitely can't trust her. No matter how she may be reprogrammed to cooperate with us, there's always a risk of resurgent subroutines from her original command format, and they can surface at any time."

"And there's the other thing," said Rodriguez. "Those...hybrid machines, Connor's mother and the other guy, Wright. What if they go bad like the girl could? They're just as deadly as the girl is. I've seen them in a firefight, and they can take a beating without body armor, too."

"We can't take Connor out of the picture with those...things...protecting him," Hall said. "We don't have enough people on our side. We'd have to hit them all fast and hard, and right now there's too few of us."

Hawkins looked around and sighed. "I just can't believe we're actually talking about this," he said quietly.

"Then what the hell did you join this meeting for, shits and giggles?" Jackson barked, taking an intimidating step toward Hawkins. "We're all here because we ain't cool with the leadership of this group. You wanna walk, you walk, and you disappear. But if you rat on us, I'll make you disappear and you'll end up as somebody's bitch in hell. That what you want?"

Hawkins swallowed, considered his tactical situation, and lightly shook his head. "No," he said. "I'm not here because I'm unhappy. I'm here because I'm scared...like all of us."

James looked among them and nodded. "Than it's settled. If you're all in this with me, we need to move quickly. As far as numbers...I've already communicated with the local police command and they're receptive to my proposal. They're assuring me that they can commit to helping us with personnel and weapons if necessary. But I told the local police chief that under no circumstances is John or any of the others loyal to him to be harmed, only taken into custody. Action needs to be swift and coordinated. The cyborgs need to be shut down...Cameron most of all."

"We've been keeping tabs on them," said Hall. "We know where the Connors and the Phillips cyborg are and where Bedell and the others are staying. We lost track of Wright, though."

"Bad news," muttered Rodriguez. "The guy is a tank."

"We'll deal with Wright when we neutralize the others. But we'll need help on the inside of their group," said James. "Somebody who can be persuaded to join us and won't arouse suspicion."

For a few moments there was stony silence in the garage. Then Savannah's aquamarine eyes came to life and she smiled tightly.

"I can get somebody to help us," she said.

8

San Francisco, September, 2014

Dr. Eldon Tyrell stared at the pieces on the board before him, touched the top of an obsidian knight, considered for a few seconds, and drew his hand away. He frowned at the positions of his opponent's army in relation to his own, saw the near-hopelessness of his situation, and smiled grimly. He enjoyed being outmaneuvered, even outnumbered. It made for tremendous mental stimulation, which in turn made dramatic comebacks so much more satisfying.

Across from him, leaning forward deep in thought, was a small, slender young man with a curiously-wrinkled face and pale complexion. He was dressed in simple gray overalls and white long-sleeved shirt. His breathing was quick and his lips quivered like trapped foxes. When he looked up at Tyrell, a hint of smugness laced his sorrowful-looking eyes.

"Interesting position you're in, Dr. Tyrell," the younger man said in a reedy twang, his dark eyes sparking in the dim light of Tyrell's vast, ornate inner sanctum, near the top of the Tyrell Corporation Building. Tyrell was dressed in immaculate crimson silk pajamas and black evening robe, a stark contrast from his opponent. The younger man said, "I don't often see this happen. Are you sure you don't want to accept a draw?"

"I respectfully decline your offer, Sebastian," Tyrell said pleasantly. He smiled grimly as he studied the chessboard, regarding his opponent with sincere admiration. J.F. Sebastian was one of his genetic designers and one of the sharpest minds he'd ever encountered. They met every Friday to continue the long-running tournament they'd somehow found themselves in, and Tyrell always looked forward to playing. Sebastian was one of the few worthy adversaries who made his time in Tyrell's presence worthwhile. Sebastian had come close to beating Tyrell on several occasions, and the senior scientist had no doubt that Sebastian's first chess victory would come very soon. Perhaps now.

Tyrell finally moved a piece, placing his remaining bishop into check position against Sebastian's king. It was a desperate gambit to force his opponent into making a difficult position to either move his king or sacrifice his queen, both of which would leave Sebastian's king in a compromising position a few moves later...as long as Sebastian didn't deduce the flimsy trap that Tyrell was hastily constructing on the board. Part of which involved a distraction...

"Have you gotten any more information about your condition?" Tyrell suddenly asked, looking intently at the younger man.

Sebastian looked up, shrugging sadly. "Phase 2 Progeria, or Methuselah Syndrome, as my condition is called, is incurable, unfortunately. In the past five years my body has aged approximately thirty years. Normally it's a gene mutation that occurs during gestation in the womb, and the child develops it quickly after birth. The body grows old too quickly. In my case, though, my cells didn't start mutating until after adolescence. I didn't know about it until I was about seventeen when it was finally diagnosed. Nobody knows what triggered it. Prognosis is about maybe ten to fifteen more years...unless a way to slow the disease is found."

"With the progress we're making in gene restructuring, I have no doubt we can slow or even reverse the progress of your disease," Tyrell said, studying Sebastian's face and hands. The young genetic designer was only nineteen, a biomolecular engineering prodigy at MIT who dropped out in his final semester to take a job at Cyberdyne-Kaliba's genetics division with Serena Kogan's team before Tyrell befriended him. It took almost nothing to convince the young genius to work for him, and the payoff was quick and enormous. Within a year of joining Tyrell, Sebastian had helped resolve the RNA recombination problem that had impeded replication processes, among other advances. His face and hands were young-looking then. Now they were elephantine, dotted by liver spots. His eyes, once vibrant, were now sunken, morose. Tyrell nearly winced. "There is hope, you know, and we're very close to completing the final phases of our research."

"I have no doubt," Sebastian said, moving his ivory queen several squares over to take Tyrell's bishop. Tyrell suppressed a grin and sprang his trap, moving his rook to kill Sebastian's queen. His opponent's white king was all but boxed in, with hardly any place to go. "Perhaps I should be the one to offer a draw," he sardonically said to the young engineer.

"Checkmate," Sebastian announced as he moved a knight into an overlooked location. Tyrell's eyes widened in disbelief, then his mouth grinned in admiration. All the while he was preparing his trap, Sebastian stealthily improvised one of his own, sacrificing his queen and lulling Tyrell into a false sense of strategic triumph. Tyrell had forgotten to cover his own king's flank, dooming him.

Tyrell clapped and said, "Well, done, Sebastian. You've finally beaten me. I believe a celebration is in order. I'll have wine or scotch brought up, whatever you prefer."

"Thank you, Dr. Tyrell, but I'd better be getting home, if you don't mind," said Sebastian as he rose from his seat. "I completed a preliminary run of the gene sequencing of the N3 line. Chew and I are working on tissue growth of eyes and ears and believe me, we're getting excited." As he picked up his coat from the chair's back rest, he frowned.

"You know, Dr. Tyrell, I was thinking...our test subjects are going to have a very limited lifespan...they'll also have the potential to develop a full range of emotions. Unlike the N1 subjects, who were based on existing personas with implanted memories, these new ones...well, they won't know how to control their feelings, much less develop empathic responses. And, according to how their particular lines are developed, they'll be of varying degrees of strength and intelligence according to the roles they'll be assigned. Aren't you afraid that these...'replicants'...will go rampant when they try to process their emerging emotions?"

"The thought had occurred to me, yes," Tyrell said, sighing. He sipped from a simmering cup of tea and set it back down on the table near the chessboard. "Emotional development is a concern, particularly in the first two years. It's a necessary evil, Sebastian, as interaction with humans will be a given, and the possibility of rampancy is significant. But I have a fail-safe being put in place that should effectively deal with that if it happens, and besides, I'm already thinking that the replicants should not be permitted to operate freely on Earth. At least, not at first. Their operational priority will be with the Off-World program. After that, by the sixth or seventh Nexus generation, we shall see."

Sebastian nodded and looked away, lost in thought. "Maybe they shouldn't even be told what they are..." he muttered. "Like we did with the N1s. I don't know." He grunted and said, "Thank you for another great game, Dr. Tyrell. See ya." He turned to exit the sanctum.

Eldon Tyrell picked up a captured white pawn and absentmindedly studied it, admiring the impossibly smooth surface and perfect sculpting of its curves. He put it down on the board and ruminated on his discussion with Sebastian regarding emotion. Tyrell wondered if he could still feel love, even after his harrowing years as a slave of Skynet in a different future. He frowned and got up to sit at his desk. The entire surface of the desk shimmered to life and various images displayed. He chose one and zoomed with his fingertips.

It showed a human figure suspended in an axolotl tank. Its blond hair was fully grown, its solid frame heavily corded with muscle. Tyrell marveled at its near-total development, his eyes widening as it twitched in the liquid nutrient, its fingers flexing. He sighed, smiled and leaned back in his chair, nodding slowly in satisfaction. He could still feel love.

"Soon, Roy," he whispered, turning the desk display off. "Soon you'll be fully alive and you'll be perfect.

"Soon, I'll have you back, my son."

9

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

John Connor helped his mother to her bed and pulled the covers over her. She was shivering despite the warmth of the day. He felt her hand grip his and he looked down at her. Despite the strength in her hand, Sarah Connor looked incredibly frail. Her sallow features reminded him almost of a skull and for a brief moment an awful memory of the Beast roared in his head. He pushed it away into darkness, and knelt at her bedside. A single tear escaped the duct in his left eye. Sarah whispered, "Big boys don't cry."

John wiped the tear away and exhaled heavily, feeling the dread and approaching loss begin to crush him. He asked, "Mom...did you know...?"

Sarah nodded. "I suspected it for a while. I'd feel so exhausted for days on end sometimes, and I was almost always feeling sick to my stomach. But the weakness was almost unbearable. I wanted to always be strong...for the world...for the memory of Kyle...and for you." She turned away and said, "I never wanted you to see this, John."

John opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Instead, he nodded and put his head down next to her. "I know, Mom," he whispered into the bedding. He sniffled and squeezed her hand tightly. He raised himself from the bed and said, "Mom, there's gotta be something we can do. Blood transfusion, chemo, something...it can't be untreatable."

"It is," Sarah said sadly. "If it's stage four, it's terminal, John. And even if it wasn't, you couldn't get me to a hospital in time to get it treated. And Kate can do only so much. Cameron just confirmed what I was afraid of. I can't be helped."

John's voice caught in his throat and he choked as he said, "Mom...no...not like this. You can't give up! You can't...please, Mom...don't leave me." He was ashamed to cry, but he felt his eye's floodgates open and deluge his cheekbones.

She turned to look into her son's eyes and squeezed his hand. "John...you can't let this derail you. I'm not as important as you are...you need to be strong, my son. The Resistance is weak from the divisions forming and will collapse if you don't show your will and pull it back together. And you'll do it with Cameron by your side."

John's heart leaped when she said it, and he stared in disbelief. For a moment, he didn't think she was thinking clearly, that her disease had perhaps spread to her brain. But he saw the earnestness in her face, her laser focus on him, and he knew Sarah Connor was serious.

"Mom..." he said in wide-eyed wonder, "you mean...you...want Cameron to..."

"I'm giving her my blessing, John," Sarah said and smiled. "She's been your protector, your friend, your lover...and she will be by your side forever. I won't be. Neither will any of the others. But if her love for you is real, and you love her, who am I to deny that?" Her eyes turned glassy with tears. "All I really ever want in the world, John, is for my son to be happy and safe. With Cameron, you'll be both."

She reached up to place her hand on his cheek, caressing softly. "Go to her, John. I can't be your protector or field commander anymore...but she can be, and more. And you love her. You literally went through hell and worse to get her back in your life. She is your destiny, John. Go...be with your...wife."

John held her hand in his and closed his eyes, holding her hand tightly against his chest. He nodded and opened his eyes. His grief at knowing his mother's fate overwhelmed him as much as his joy of knowing that she finally accepted Cameron. Euphoria was tempered by dysphoria...but in between them lay hope.

He said, "I love you, Mom. Thank you." He gently let go of her hand and leaned forward to kiss her on her lips. He got up to leave. "I'll check on you later. Right now, just sleep."

"Don't forget to let me dance at your wedding," Sarah Connor said in delirium as sleep took her.

10

Los Angeles, September, 2014

Professor Martin Kampff placed the briefcase-sized container on the table and opened it in front of the assembled policemen. "This is the machine that Dr. Albert Voight of the FBI's Behavioral Science Division and I designed when we were interviewing serial murderers and other psycho-sociopaths for the FBI," he explained while setting it up. "Basically, it's a polygraph testing device that measures airborne pheromones secreted by the subject being interviewed as well as wirelessly gauging heart rate, respiration, and observing involuntary contractions of the iris and pupil dilation."

He unfolded several instruments from the case and activated the machine. An odd hissing sound became audible, and a small set of bellows began expanding and contracting on its side. To Harry Bryant, it looked disturbingly like a lung breathing in and out.

"The curious thing we observed when we were conducting our criminal psychology interviews with convicted serial killers and other such felons was that they all displayed the same consistent involuntary behaviors when asked a series of specialized questions...namely, a pronounced 'blush' response, sudden pupil dilation, microscopic changes in breathing and pulse, and, most curiously, a sharp reduction in their bodies' pheromone production.

"All these factors, when cross-referenced against other emotional signs, gave us a good indication on how to accurately measure the amount of empathy...or lack thereof...he or she possessed toward living things. That gave us a valuable tool in detecting cold-blooded murderers and other criminals. If used in the same manner, this could accurately help you detect a machine trying to masquerade as a human being."

"How does it work?" Holden asked, clearly interested in the machine.

"You and the subject are seated across each other with the machine between you. The iris scanner and pheromone detector are quickly calibrated and the subject is told to relax. Heart rate and respiration are automatically detected. You start by asking a series of hypothetical questions designed to provoke an emotional response...an example is, 'You're fishing on the lake one day and you catch a trout. You reel it in, pull the hook out of its mouth and instead of throwing it back, you put it on the bottom of your boat to watch it suffocate. It flops around, trying to find water to breathe, and it needs your help because it's dying. But you're not helping it. Why don't you help it?'" Kampff gazed around the room and saw jaws drop and eyes widen.

"And what is that supposed to do, exactly?" asked Bryant.

"To provoke involuntary emotional reactions, which most of us take for granted when engaged in normal conversation with people...but these microscopic signs are important to notice when observing those with impaired empathic response. A machine trying to emulate human emotion may exhibit some signs, but not all that are generated when confronted by extreme hypothetical scenarios. In other words, to provoke in the observer that uncomfortable feeling that occurs when personally interacting with something that begins to show inhuman behavior. To enter the uncanny valley. Dr. Voight and I designed this machine to simply magnify these tiny behaviors so that a sharp-eyed individual...like a police detective experienced in interrogation...may detect an imposter among us."

Bryant had heard enough. He slapped the table he sat behind and laughed. "That's it!" he exclaimed. "Will somebody here please tell me what the hell is going on? I'm aware of the threat that you're talking about, but dammit, nothing like that exists! Believe me, these skin-jobs are easy to find with metal detectors!" Several grunts and remarks of agreement filled the air after he said it.

"They will exist, because they are actually in development right now," Kampff said.

"How do you know?" asked the chief.

Kampff sighed. "Because I helped create them."

11

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

The streets of Dejalo were bustling with more people lately than they ever had been in the town's 100-year-old history, with more foreigners, most of them from the U.S., migrating south to escape the aftereffects of Judgment Day. It was good for business as the town had grown from in influx of tourists over the past five years, but the task of maintaining civic order was straining the resources of the local police and other services. However, while traffic was increasing, it was still possible to have a pleasant stroll down the sidewalks of the plaza and enjoy the local culture, as well as the goods of the shops and restaurants that occupied many of the corners of town.

In a cafe in the town plaza, Derek Reese was seated at a table across from a pretty young woman who bore a slight resemblance to Jenny Ortiz and was trying what meager scraps of Spanish he could muster to try to engage her in conversation. He was sure he was failing miserably at it.

_"Entonces, __¿__qu__é__ vas a hacer hoy?" _he attempted, trying his best not to stumble over the unfamiliar language. He smiled and casually shrugged, making sure not to break eye contact. He'd cautiously approached her table with a Carta Blanca _cerveza_ in his hand and, in English, offered to buy her something. When she looked curiously back at him, he decided that he needed to try in Español. She'd looked even more puzzled after that, and Derek quickly decided not to buy her a beer.

The girl regarded him with puzzled suspicion, her lovely green eyes narrowing. She was dressed in a light blue-and-purple sweater that showed just enough cleavage to indicate she liked to tease a little. Her outfit was completed by a pair of form-fitting blue jeans and white sandals. Her jet black hair hung straight around her lightly-tanned face and waved gently in the breeze. Her eyes were somewhat almond-shaped but showed no Asian lineage. Her small lips were pursed and wore no lipstick. She was a very lovely young woman. She continued to stare quizzically at the teenaged American dressed in worn out cargo pants, boots, faded denim jacket and carrying an assault rifle slung around his shoulder.

"Okay," Derek muttered to himself. "I gotta be doing something wrong."

"Well, for starters, your Spanish is awful," the girl said in perfect English with what sounded like a British accent. "Second, you're carrying a gun, which is making me pretty bloody nervous. And I can tell you're from southern Cali, so that's at least one point for you. If you wanna get any more points, I'd appreciate it if you'd either put the gun away, Yank, or get up and clear off. Clock's ticking."

Derek finally remembered that he was sitting with his AR-15 still slung around his shoulder and his cheeks reddened. "Sorry," he said He gently slid it from his shoulder, checked the safety, and carefully placed it on the ground beside him, making sure the muzzle faced away from her. "I'm kinda part of the local police," he said. "I mean, I'm not from here, obviously, but I'm living here for now and just helping keep the peace in town."

"Well, you're doing a remarkable job making me feel safe, Yank, that's for certain," she said with clipped sarcasm. She smirked and said, "You must be new at it, because you look about as confident as a shitfaced bull in a china shop, and I could spot from a mile away you were taking a butcher's for totty. Well, I have a few minutes if you'd like to try to chat me up."

Derek processed it all as best he could and was about to make one of his signature smartass remarks but an invisible force within him made him shut up. Instead he gave her an easygoing smile and said, "I take it you don't like guns. Me neither."

She raised an eyebrow. "But you chose to carry one."

He shrugged. "No choice. It's either have it and not need it or need it and not have it. Like health insurance."

She tilted her head in curiosity. "Have you had to use your weapon?"

Derek was tempted to lie. "No," he said quietly. "Not yet. And to be honest with you, I hope I never have to. But I'll fire it if I have to."

She finally smiled warmly. "You're very interesting, Yank. What's your name?"

Derek suppressed a triumphant smile. "I'm Derek Reese," he said, offering his hand. She took it and shook lightly with a surprisingly strong grip.

"I'm Briah," she said. "Briah Elizabeth Nightingale. Nice to meet you, Derek. You're from Los Angeles, I presume?"

"That's right. My brother and I are living down here with a few friends. We needed to escape because of some trouble up there. You have a very pretty name, by the way, Briah. What does that mean?"

She sipped her tea and said, "It's Hebrew. It means 'creation.' What kind of trouble were you and your brother running from?"

"It's, uh, complicated."

"Try me."

He sighed. "I don't know..." The memories were still too painful. Derek tried to filter as much as he could without risking a breakdown in front of the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, one who was afraid of firearms but who was nonetheless interested in him. He finally noticed something sitting on the ground next to her seat and he pointed. "What is that?"

She looked down and smiled. "Oh," she said, picking up a guitar case. "This is my Martin guitar. Cost me a bomb but it plays lovely. I play and sing around here for any shopkeeper who'll hire me to play for their customers, usually barrooms. Would you like me to play you a tune?"

"Sure," he said, relaxing completely. "I'd love to hear you play."

Briah Nightingale set the guitar case down and opened it. She carefully lifted the expensive instrument up to her torso and strapped it around her. She spent a moment tuning it and then began strumming a few chords with her long fingernails. When she was satisfied with the sound she began playing a sorrowful melody that made Derek feel as if his mother and father were somehow standing near him. He resisted the urge to look.

Briah saw his face and frowned, but she kept playing. After a moment she began to hum, then sang the first few bars of the song. She had a beautiful, haunting voice. It was a sad and yet somehow joyful song about love and loss. When she was done, she stared away into space, almost lost. For a few moments they sat in silence. He stared at her, entranced by her raven-haired beauty.

Derek said, "Wow. That was beautiful, Briah. What was that?"

She looked at him and smiled. "That was 'Dance Me to the End of Love,' by Leonard Cohen. It's my favorite song in the world. You've never heard it before? Awfully good song. I played it for my mother before leaving England to come here. She broke down in the airport, almost drawing security over. I play it a lot."

"I meant to ask you, what brought you here to Mexico?"

Briah shrugged. "Same reason that brought you here, I guess. Escape. I'd never seen Mexico and decided to just up and come here. Of course, that was before the war started." She sipped her tea and said, "My parents had gone through a terrible divorce and I needed to get away. My dad, he's an American, so I have both British and US citizenship, which is highly convenient. He and my mum met in university a while back in the mid-nineties, at Oxford, before I was born. They didn't marry until 2003, when I was six, and by then my mum and I had moved with him to Boston. But there'd been problems almost since the first day, and unfortunately I got to see a lot of it. Oh, I'm sorry...didn't mean to put you in the dumps, my bonnie chap."

"No, it's okay," Derek said. "Believe me, what you told me is pretty normal compared to what I've been through. How long are you staying here in Dejalo?"

She arched her eyebrows. "I don't know, actually. Kinda stuck here, to be honest. Haven't been able to reach my mum. My dad, he's pretty much disappeared. My iPhone has been buggered since the war started two months ago. I'm staying with a nice older couple here who have grandchildren living with them and I've been giving them music lessons. They're really cheeky little devils, whip-smart. Say, I'm still waiting for why _you're_ down here, Derek Reese."

Derek sighed, having hoped that she'd forget to ask him. He opened his mouth and heard himself say, "My brother and I came home the morning of the war and found our parents murdered. The men who killed them were going to kidnap us and take us to God-knows-where when suddenly this woman we never met before shows up out of nowhere, kills them, and takes us away to safety. We've been running away with her and her son and a bunch of other people we ran into since then."

"Blimey! And that's why you're down here? Oh gosh, Derek, that's terrible. I had no idea! You poor thing...do you know who it was who did this terrible thing to you?"

Derek thought for a moment. "Not really. Gener—I mean, John, the son of the lady who rescued me and Kyle, my brother, told us who was behind it, but I don't have any idea why they went after us. I know that we're related somehow...and John has something that they want, so they're doing anything they can to get it."

Briah put her guitar back in its case and moved her chair closer to Derek, who suddenly felt his stomach shrink. She sidled to him and leaned closely, putting her hand on his. To Derek it was like an electric shock that he never wanted to stop feeling.

"I'm so sorry, Derek, for who you lost," she whispered, gripping his hand gently. "You can talk about it with me if you want. I'll be here for a while in town, and you can look me up when you're finished for the day. Oh, that's all terrible! Is Kyle okay? Maybe you should be with him..."

Derek nodded. "He's okay. In fact, he's quite the ass-kicker in the family, ha. My little brother is good with guns and knows how to dish it out. You'd love him if you meet him. Briah..." He held her hand tenderly in both hands and looked intently into her eyes. "It's still dangerous, even here. We're being chased by some very bad people. I know that John and his mother and their friends will do their best to keep us from being harmed, but this world is a more dangerous place now. It would be better for you if you get out of here and save yourself. I'm not trying to push you away, but..."

Derek let his voice fade. Then he felt his chest heave and he said, "I screwed up badly. My brother and three other people and I were at a restaurant west of L.A. looking for somebody and we were ambushed by these militia creeps. We all almost got killed...and we did lose somebody. Sandra. She was a nurse, and she was the nicest lady I ever met. She was killed there saving my life. I froze when I should have pulled the trigger on this guy who was aiming his gun at me, taking all the time in the world, and I just stood there staring at him. Sandra pushed me out of the way and saved my life, but she got shot up and she died. I'm alive today because of her, and I can never repay her for what she did."

He looked up at her side green eyes, not realizing that he'd hung his head low. _Oh God, I hope I wasn't crying_, he thought bitterly. He felt a tear roll down his cheek and impulsively wiped it away. He felt numb. "I'm...I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want—I mean..." _Oh, real good, Reese, you epic fail, you. First you get somebody killed, everybody sees you as a whimpering pussy, and now a girl who is starting to get interested in you sees this. Ordinary failure just ain't enough for you..._

She shook her head. "No," she said softly, "I understand completely. Oh, God, that's so horrible, what you've had to deal with." Without hesitation she leaned up and kissed his cheek. Derek Reese's spirit exploded like a supernova, fragmenting into fiery bits of primordial star matter as her lips touched his flesh, wiping away his self-pity in an instant.

"You'll be strong, Derek Reese," whispered Briah Nightingale as she drew away from him and retrieved her guitar case. He sat speechless, staring at her as she got up and left a peso tip on the table. His memory sparked a scene from another, terrible time

_(You'll find your strength, son.)_

as she spoke those words, reminding him that his life had been bought for a terrible price. His heart sank as he watched her get up to leave. He thought quickly and said, "Will you meet me here again?"

Briah Nightingale smiled and shrugged. "I come here every now and then. I'd love to stay and talk, but I must be chivvying to my music appointment before I'm made redundant. But you'll be in town for at least a while?"

"Yeah," said Derek. "I don't know how long, but I'll come back here to see you if I have time."

He stood and approached her. "Can I help you with that, or...?"

She patted her guitar case and laughed. "This is lighter than it looks. I'm fine. But thank you, Derek. I'll see you around." She reached out to clasp his hand, then smiled and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek again. He watched her leave the cafe, cross the street, and disappear among the crowd on the sidewalk.

"Hey, Derek!" called a familiar voice. He continued to stare where he last saw Briah Nightingale vanish from his sight and was dimly aware of his name being called. He felt a hand touch his arm and he turned to see Savannah Weaver standing next to him, her blazing red hair fluttering in the breeze around her light rosy face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, squinting. "You look like you just saw God."

"Maybe an angel," he muttered, barely hearing himself.

"Derek, I need to talk to you," Savannah said, her eyes locked with his.

"About what?"

"About John."

11

Los Angeles, September, 2014

"I used to work for Cyberdyne Systems in their Artificial Intelligence division about ten years ago," Professor Kampff explained to the astonished assembly of cops. "This was before their merger with the Kaliba Consortium was complete and when their Genetics Division was receiving a huge amount of funding. Where they were getting their money from to run everything, I'll never know, but I remember being excited to work with people like Dr. Serena Kogan and Andrew Goode back in those days.

"I was there to consult...and to participate in developing some of the basic algorithms for an artificial intelligence system to...mimic...emotions. You must understand: we were pioneers ten years ago, attempting to do something that had been tried before...to create a machine intelligence that could also feel. It isn't enough, you see, to simply design a computer system that is self-aware and can think. You need to temper its sentience with the ability to feel something...anything...that will prevent it from becoming intrinsically distrustful of its makers and become a sociopath. That was my field, having helped children with autism, Asperger's, and other developmental disorders for over thirty years."

"But what does this have to do with creating human machines?" asked a detective named Kohler.

Kampff took in a deep breath. "There was a little side project going on at Cyberdyne that started picking up steam about the time I started working there, something called Project Angel. At the time I started I heard little about it, but when I became more involved in the AI project, and the two projects became intertwined, I began to get more details. And it was disturbing.

"Project Angel involved integrating cybernetic and electronic implants with organic life systems in living human subjects. Most of the first volunteers were convicted criminals who were either spared from execution or had their sentences commuted to probation if they agreed to participate. There were...mistakes. A lot of the early subjects died horribly. The problem was their inability to accept what was happening to them and they would go into shock. That's when the realization was reached that we needed to...'gentle'...them somehow in their physical and mental adjustments to their new bodies. And I suggested that we implant false memories in them through isolation therapy."

"Jesus," said Holden. "What good would that do? And why the hell create something like that?"

Kampff took a sip of water and said, "Implanting false memories in the subjects acted as a cushion for the shock of discovering what had been done to them. They weren't told that they had been modified, and they would accept their new pasts and later, when they would discover their new nature, deal with it with a stronger psyche and thus be easier to control. To answer your other question... Cyberdyne had a huge military contract with the Department of Defense for their AI work and Project Angel provided them with prototypes of new enhanced humans, battlefield soldiers with the ability to withstand heavy damage and endure in extreme environments far longer than baseline humans.

"The DOD was definitely interested...but they wanted further tests done to determine if the N1 subjects were stable enough to perform in civilian life as well as a battlefield environment. So the decision was made to field test them in the open, integrating them quietly into civilian roles and observing them. The experiment was mostly successful...with only a few flaws."

"Flaws?" Bryant inquired.

"Several of them went rampant," said Kampff. "The project was going smoothly until the Tyrell Corporation bought Cyberdyne and Kaliba. Then things were suddenly accelerated...products were rushed into development, many advances were made, but as a consequence a lot of corners were cut...and the roles in which they were thrust into became more violent. A few of them were recovered and...'retired.' One of the subjects, a female who was used as an assassin and bomber, was never recovered."

_Sarah Connor_, Bryant thought. The knowledge he was confronted with sent a chill down his spine. The woman was not even human anymore. And paired up with Wright. _Jesus..._

"Gentlemen," Kampff said quietly, "I need you all to know that I am not proud of what I had done for Cyberdyne and Tyrell, nor how my research and ideas were used to twist and corrupt what had begun as a noble experiment to prolong and enhance human life and our relationship with technology...especially emerging consciousnesses that could be used for our benefit. If I could go back and change my mind, I would. But I cannot, and I have to deal with the consequences of my sins."

There was silence in the conference room for a moment. Then Detective Kohler curiously asked, "Dr. Kampff, to your knowledge, have you told this story to anyone else?"

Professor Kampff, surprised, shook his head. "No, I haven't until now."

"Thank you," said Kohler. He pulled his sidearm from its holster and shot Martin Kampff.

12

San Francisco, September, 2014

John Daniels finished telling Danny Dyson his story and slumped in his chair, exhausted. He'd never felt so weary before in his life. He looked into Dyson's eyes and noted the outrage and dread he was seeing in them. He felt a little more sober but his head was now pounding in excruciating agony.

"Are you satisfied now, Danny?" he asked. "Now you know."

Dyson closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "So...just so I understand this," he said, "you and Tyrell and Weyland and all these others came back in time from 2030 to 1965. You did it to escape what became Skynet. And how the hell did you prevent it from sending any Terminators after your asses?"

"We rigged the time displacement chamber with explosives, enough to destroy it, before we departed," Daniels replied. "We had them set on a timer to blow just one minute after we went through. We were gambling with our lives, but it seemed to have paid off. Nothing else came after us."

Dyson looked up at the old man and said, "It all fits. Why you were able to enter my personal office...why we look and sound alike...probably why you showered me with so many benefits the few years I worked here, made another guy take the fall for me murdering that woman in the gym...showed me so much favoritism...I'm right, aren't I?"

Daniels sighed. "I simply wanted to give you some of the things I never had when I...we...were younger, Danny. Is that wrong?"

Dyson stared coldly at him and didn't reply. Instead he said, "And when you went back in time, you met the woman who would be my grandmother and...you married her."

"Yes."

"You...I...became my own grandfather."

"Yes."

"You sick fuck."

Daniels sighed and raised his hands. "You want to hear an apology? Fine, Danny. I'm sorry. What the hell can we do about it now?" He looked at his younger self, pleading. "I...we...can't go back now to change that! If we did..." He left the rest unsaid.

Dyson slowly rose from his chair and the shadow of his frame spread over the old man. "You and I can't ever change anything...because we're stuck in this loop. It can't ever be broken...because if it is, we cease to exist."

Daniels closed his eyes and said, "Maybe."

"Bullshit, 'maybe.' You doomed us. That means that somehow, someway...it has to happen. I have to go back to 1965. Over...and over...and over again. For eternity. Even though things changed, this is an event that has been set to always take place."

Daniels's mind surged like a transformer on overload, grasping at anything, and he hit upon something. Hope leaped in his heart and he exclaimed, "No! It isn't set because things have changed! Things are different. Skynet has been destroyed, Danny! It doesn't exist anywhere anymore. The DEUS program is gone. Every emulation of the Turk has been erased. Things can be different, Danny. We're not bound by fate! We can make our own..." His face contorted with desperate hope that drained away when he saw Dyson's face, accusing and glazed with horror. The face of the damned.

"You're deluded, you old fool. Somehow...it'll happen. It _has_ to! We're the same DNA, the same fingerprints, the same iris pattern...everything! Somehow Skynet will develop, somehow those godawful events in the future you described will happen, and somehow I'll have to make a trip back in time to make sure I'm born...to eventually become _you_. _Forever!_ Oh, Jesus, this is funny! Really fucking _funny_..." Dyson collapsed in his chair and laughed manically.

John Daniels placed his face in his hands and shook his head. His brain was still inebriated by the alcohol, but he felt completely sober at the same time. "It won't..." he moaned through his fingers. "It won't happen that way, I promise, Danny! This is a different timeline...the rules have changed. We changed events...me, Tyrell, Weyland, Fischer, all of us who escaped Skynet. We made alterations in history to suit our needs and shift events the way we knew would be better. Got Nixon off the hook to renew the Apollo program, convinced Reagan to spend more on technology...this and that. This Judgment Day was not as bad as the one I remembered, when entire continents were blackened and hardly anyone survived, and when the machines appeared, dear Christ... Things are different now. Oh, Jesus, Danny, you've got to believe me!"

Danny Dyson looked up at the hunched, crying figure of his older self that went by the name of John Daniels and his hysteria quickly turned to disgust. A smoldering coal of anger began to burn in his belly and he stood up. His voice shook with rage as he approached the desk. "I'm not going to take that chance, old man. I'll choose my path, but I'm going to make sure I stay in the game...for all eternity."

"What do you mean?" Daniels whispered. Dread formed a black pool of bile in his gut.

"We're going to resurrect the DEUS program. I have enough of the program architecture on backup to restore some of it. We get it initiated again, let it write most of its own code like DEUS did, only this time, we'll keep tighter watch over it, keep it from going rampant. Part of its command structure will be to develop time displacement technology, just like Skynet did, but we'll be the ones using it, not the machinery."

"JESUS CHRIST, DANNY!" John Daniels screamed. "Have you learned nothing after everything I confessed to you? Enough damage has been done in at least two alternate histories! You want to repeat that process? I see this as our last chance, to throw this monster away forever and let it die! You want to risk repeating this nightmare forever!"

"You're not throwing me away," Dyson hissed, baring his teeth.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not the one giving up and letting myself fade from existence, old man," Dyson growled. "If living means repeating an endless timeloop to keep myself going, then that's what I'll do. And I'll keep learning from the mistakes that I...we...make." He loomed darkly over Daniels. The old man suddenly felt cold, felt fear grip his base. His younger self looked impossibly powerful.

"You'll either help me...or stay out of my way," said Danny Dyson.

John Daniels closed his eyes and nodded slowly. When he opened them after an eternal moment, he looked lovingly into Dyson's eyes and said, "I won't help you, Danny...and I'll do whatever I can to stop this madness that you're descending into."

Dyson exhaled slowly and felt preternaturally calm as he placed his hands on Daniels's shoulders. "Your choice," he said quietly, almost sorrowful. His grip tightened and with strength that surprised even him Dyson forced John Daniels to the floor. The old man struggled with all his strength to break free as Dyson shoved his knee over Daniels's torso and with a hideous effort of dark will placed his hands over the old man's face, pinching shut his nose and shutting his mouth with his other hand. Daniels's muffled screams sounded like a wounded animal being drowned.

Dyson held down for as long as his strength would permit, feeling the seconds stretch to hours, then eons as he felt the old man weaken, then cease struggling. Dyson continued to smother him until his strength finally gave out and he collapsed next to the corpse, gasping.

When he finally felt strong enough to move, he heaved himself off the floor and hauled his body into Daniels's chair. He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

"This is Daniel Dyson," he spoke, trying his best to sound worried. "I need a medical team in Mr. Daniels's office, quickly. I think he suffered a heart attack."

13

Los Angeles, September, 2014

"GET DOWN!" Harry Bryant screamed.

Detective Kohler, stone-faced, continued shooting, seeking targets of opportunity. The police chief was cut down by two rounds to his chest and he lay slumped against the wall like a discarded doll. Bryant himself barely ducked in time as a bullet rocketed inches from his head. He hid behind the table he'd sat at and fumbled for his own pistol. More shots rapidly filled the air as several other cops fired back at Kohler. The detective was struck by three rounds in the torso and leg, but he calmly reloaded a full magazine into his Glock and resumed firing. Two more cops fell dead. Three were severely wounded, and two were trampled by a stampede to get to the door. Alarms finally rang throughout the building and the hallway outside suddenly filled with running policemen.

"Headshot!" Bryant screamed. "Somebody get him in the head!" He pulled back the slide on his Beretta and fired off three rounds at Kohler. One of his bullets struck the detective in the neck and he winced in pain as he clutched his neck with his free hand and returned four shots at Bryant, who ducked back behind the table in time. Bryant glimpsed crimson-stained chrome beneath Kohler's flesh when the detective took his hand away and terror shook him.

"Christ, he's a skin-job!" he screamed. He fired several more shots at the rampaging cyborg and heard the hammer click on an empty chamber. He swore as his hand reached into an empty pocket, finding no more magazines to reload with. He looked over and saw a discarded pistol lying on the floor near a dead cop's hand. His decision was made in a microsecond.

"Holden!" he screamed through the staccato mayhem. He heard the younger detective shout, "Captain! Where are you?"

"Cover me!" Bryant shouted as he felt his lungs constrict. _Oh, shit, not that now_, he thought in panic. His asthma was flaring up. He heard several new shots burst in the air, saw Kohler turn around, distracted, and Bryant made his move. He lunged for the gun and rolled around as his fingers grasped it. In a flash he took aim at Kohler's skull, a small target in his field of vision, and squeezed the trigger. His first shot missed, hitting the ceiling, but his next two found their target, hitting Kohler in the side of his head. He collapsed to his knees and fell forward, twitching.

"Holden!" the captain wheezed, his lungs in fiery agony. The room, filled with agonized screams and acrid smoke, began to spin. "You there?"

"Yeah," he heard Holden yell. He saw the younger detective get up, saw three other cops stumble to their feet, including Harrison, the newly-promoted homicide captain, their guns smoking. Harrison slapped a magazine into his pistol and ran over to help Bryant into a sitting position. Holden and one other detective, Lieutenant Sanchez, squatted next to Kohler, checking his body.

"You okay, Bryant?" Harrison asked. Bryant finally noticed blood all over the man's face, saw bits of brain stuck to his cheeks. He looked to Bryant like a garish circus clown. Bryant choked back the urge to giggle.

"Make sure he's dead," Bryant coughed. As he said it, he heard Holden cry out, saw the detective flying backward behind Harrison, heard a shot, and watched in amazement as a crimson flower bloomed from the homicide chief's forehead as the bullet exited. He slumped forward to reveal an annoyed-looking Kohler standing with a .357 Colt in his hand. Bryant felt numb as the cyborg aimed the pistol at him.

"Ah, shit," Bryant said in defiance. The door to the conference room suddenly blew inward and Kohler turned his attention to four cops dressed in tactical gear bursting in. Kohler blew two of them away before they could get off a shot but the other two managed to pump off two shotgun rounds. Kohler shrugged them off and used his remaining two bullets to stun them, then picked up one of their shotguns to finish them off in booming finality.

Harry Bryant wheezed as Kohler, with most of the flesh on his face blown away, revealing a bloody skull partially constructed with metal, stood over him once more, pumped a shell into the chamber, and aimed the shotgun at Bryant's nose.

"Shit," Bryant said again, feeling dark hilarity bubble within him. He decided to smile as he died.

The back of Kohler's head exploded in a flash of bluish light and his body shook like a marionette puppet as three more bullets struck his skull. Kohler gasped as he fell forward, the shotgun dropping from his hands and nearly clocking Harry Bryant in the head as he looked in astonishment at a raincoated figure stepping forward with a Glock held in both hands. The man nudged Kohler's body with his muddy shoe and fired one more time into the cyborg's forehead, imploding it. He looked down at Bryant and nodded. The captain heard footsteps pound into the room, heard men and women shouting. He heard Dave Holden moaning on the floor as he awoke from unconsciousness.

"Medics!" somebody on the other end of the room hollered, "We have three still alive, including a civilian!"

"Martin Kampff," someone yelled. "Visitor. Somebody get me oxygen!"

An EMS tech came over to help Bryant up. The captain finally recognized his savior in the brown raincoat and laughed as he said, "I was wondering when you'd show up again, pal."

"I'll write you an interesting report, captain," said Rick Deckard.

14

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

Cameron Phillips sat alone in the church, staring curiously at the candles flickering around the altar. Her HUD instantly measured the heat signature emanating from the tiny flames and her CPU calculated how long they had been burning: two hours, thirteen minutes and eight seconds. It is nearly impossible for a computer system to get bored, but Cameron found herself inexplicably staring around the sanctuary, instantly noting the repair work done to the stucco and wood that had been damaged four years ago in an apocalyptic gun battle with her cyborg nemesis.

It is also nearly impossible for a computer to feel religious, but she recognized in mere nanoseconds that she was questioning her own role in the whole of existence. It was a thought process that was completely foreign to her perfectly ordered logic center, but there were too many variables to ignore. There had to be another answer.

She wondered if John Henry was right. About faith. Cameron considered perhaps that was the reason why she felt drawn to the church.

She had questions that logic alone couldn't answer.

Then there was the other thing she was confronted by, and that was resentment. Cameron's CPU had been designed to perfectly emulate human emotion, and on many occasions she had decided that she could go further than emulate. She could feel. She'd already cataloged a multitude of emotions during her time living with John, Sarah and (the old) Derek, felt everything ranging from the smallest annoyance to the most vicious of jealousy and anger. Particularly when that bitch whore Riley Dawson wormed her way between her and John. Cameron hadn't felt satisfied when Riley was found murdered, but neither did she feel an iota of grief.

But resentment was a new emotion for her, and she could not process the meaning of the gnawing discomfort in her electronic psyche. It was related to anger, yet a completely separate entity that sneaked in without warning. It took only milliseconds for her to recognize the target of her resentment: John.

The realization disturbed her. She needed to know why. She knew that she loved him and he loved her, even without fully understanding how the illogic of that concept could be perfectly logical. It was a perfect paradox for her to ruminate _reductium ad absurdum_, but she knew that the feeling of love could not be reduced to integers. She simply accepted it and was happy. But still...she was resentful toward him. And it needed to be addressed.

She suddenly detected another presence in the sanctuary, heard the footsteps approaching, and recognized the gait and foot pressure immediately. She resisted the urge to turn around to face him, not knowing exactly why.

For a while, he stood between the rows of pews in silence, staring at the back of her head, then took a seat behind her and said, "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"Faith isn't part of my programming," Cameron acknowledged flatly. "But lately I've been considering a lot of variables that may challenge that fact."

John sighed and leaned against the pew she sat in. He stared at her profile for a moment, considering his next question. She looked very troubled, and he knew that an apology was warranted.

"Look," he said carefully. "I'm um...I'm sorry, Cameron."

She didn't reply. Her cold silence chilled John, and he thought quickly. "Uh...look. I'm really sorry. I was being a real jerk back at the house. It was uncalled for. You're right, I should have heard you in private and not involved Mom. I don't know what possessed me...I guess I simply felt that she deserved to know what was going on with her. I thought it wasn't a good idea to speak about her behind her back, knowing that we were discussing something that she needed to hear about. It was a poor decision on my part." He inhaled and let air out slowly. "You were right and I was wrong, Cameron. I'm sorry I made you look like a fool."

He was answered by more cold silence. John felt his stomach plummet and he stared away from her, his eyes drawn to the candles. He rested his chin on the pew and said, "Jesus, Cameron, I'm sorry! Please! You have no idea how rotten I'm feeling right now!"

Without looking at him, Cameron quietly said, "Apology accepted."

Hope elevated John's heart. He sat up and asked, "So we're okay, then?"

She shrugged. "I guess. How is Sarah?"

He sighed and said, "Okay for now. She was sleeping when I left her." He looked around and asked, "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I chose to come here." She looked around to look at him. "And I'm sorry, too, John, for running away. How did you know where to find me?"

John thought, shrugged, and replied, "It was the last place I thought about, really, but it made weird sense to me."

"How?"

"This was where we blew Cromartie away. He kidnapped Mom, threw her in the trunk of his car, figured out that Riley and I were down here, and almost got me at the police station. Then Ellison shows up out of nowhere and helps me rescue Mom, and we all meet here for the big showdown. You kicked his ass, Cam. I figured maybe you'd be here to reminisce all that, and I was right."

"You're incorrect," she said, glancing at him. "That's not why I'm here."

He blinked and shook his head. "Okay. Then...what?"

Cameron looked oddly thoughtful and her dark eyes took on a sorrowful appearance. "I've been thinking about a lot of things lately...a lot about the mission that we have to prevent the Grays' agendas...but mostly about you, John."

"Me? What are you thinking?"

"Kate Brewster," she said, her voice suddenly tight. "She's young, fit, and mostly unaffected by radiation exposure. She would be a viable mother for your offspring and probably a good spouse."

John felt like he'd been hit on the jaw. "_Kate?_ Are you serious?"

"She would be good for you. She has physical aspects that I lack. She can bear you children. I cannot. I do not possess a uterus nor ovaries. Her breasts and figure are fuller than mine. She produces real pheromones compared to my artificial ones. Is she not attractive to you? I saw the way she looked at you after her mother's funeral, and it looked somewhat inviting." Jealousy and hurt tinged her tone.

John laughed sardonically. "Cameron...I think you misread something. I don't think you have anything to worry about from Doctor Brewster. And that wasn't exactly the look of love she gave me at the funeral." He saw her look of confusion and hurt and he stopped laughing. "I'm serious," he said, his tone quiet and austere. "That look she gave me...that wasn't a 'come hither' look, Cameron. It wasn't friendly, and it was very accusing. She blames me for her mother's death."

Cameron looked genuinely perplexed. "But you weren't responsible for what happened at the diner, John. You sent her with the others on what you felt was a safer mission, not intending to send them into harm's way. I don't understand."

John sighed heavily. "It's okay. You wouldn't understand because you never really lost anybody close to you, Cam. She has. Both her parents are gone now. And even though I had no way of knowing what would happen out in Porter Ranch...I'm the leader of the Resistance, and I'm ultimately responsible. I'm wracked with sorrow and regret over what happened, and I do feel like I screwed up. I do feel a lot for Kate Brewster...but not in the way that you were probably thinking. You understand that, don't you?"

Cameron nodded her head. "Yes. Thank you for explaining."

John let a smirk curl his mouth. "Okay, with all that out of the way...why don't you tell me why you're really here?

She looked away, staring into space ahead. "John, do you believe in God?"

The question took him completely by surprise and his mouth went dry. He looked away, then back to her and said, "No...not really. I don't know. I went to church with Mom on the few times we went while running through Central America, but I never understood it. It was never really explained to me. Later on, as I got older, I didn't feel that there was any need to know...or believe." He considered. "I guess the best way I could explain myself is I'm a little agnostic. Why do you ask?"

"I believe," Cameron said.

John's mouth hung open and he blinked. "You...what...?"

"Before he sent me on my mission to find Matthew Murch, John Henry asked me that same question. I told him that I have no understanding of faith in a higher being due to it not being integrated in my logic center. But I think that I may need to override those parameters. Things have changed for me."

"How?"

"John Henry asked me what a miracle was, and I gave him the basic definition. He said that I was correct, but then he...quite cleverly...redirected me to re-evaluate my thinking. He told me that if Murch could provide the small miracle that was hoped for, I could be open to consider the possibility of a supreme being...one more powerful and more benevolent than any I could consider to be real. And I found myself affirming that possibility...I told John Henry that if I could believe in any miracle taking place at all..."

John waited, then said, "Yeah?"

Cameron finally looked at John Connor completely and he saw her eyes soulful, welling with tears. Her lips quivered, parted, and she said, "That miracle would be you coming to bring us back together, John. And you did."

John suddenly chuckled and he climbed over the pew to sit next to her. He put his arms around her and she drew herself to him, wrapping her arms possessively around his torso, squeezing tight, not letting go. He gently drew her tear-stained face up to look into her mocha eyes, and he said, "Oh, baby...I swore I was going to bring you back. I knew I couldn't live another minute without being with you again, and I was never going to stop."

"I know," Cameron said, clutching his shirt. She pressed her face into his neck, taking in his smell, feeling sensations that could not be adequately processed. She ignored logic and accepted that her miracle had come, and was in her arms. "I love you, John Kyle Connor," she whispered huskily.

"I love you too, Cameron Phillips," he passionately returned, and smiled with joy. She took hold of his face, delighting in the feeling of her fingers pressing into his half-shaven cheeks, and kissed him. John felt a glow spread throughout his being and he opened his mouth to match the movements of her lips, then slowly tasted her with his tongue, parting her teeth to mate with hers, and he slid his arms up and down her spine, caressing her. She suddenly giggled as his fingers explored the ridges and contours of her back, compelling her to do the same to him, reaching around him to gently knead her fingers into his muscles, which had grown huge and firmly toned since that fateful Monday in April, 2009.

In the middle of their heat of passion, John saw his own miracle he'd been secretly praying to witness. He saw the love of his life, his Cameron, return to him in all her humanity.

He nearly shrieked when she found a sensitive area, and he was about to pull her shirt up to access her body when they heard an inquisitive "Ahem," come from the front of the sanctuary. They both looked, surprised, at the staring face of Padre Ramirez. He was a pale, delicate-looking man with a shock of pure white and neatly-combed hair atop fatherly eyes behind thick glasses. He was dressed in his full-collar black shirt and cassock and held a Bible in his hand.

_"Si se aburre esperando a confesar, yo podria haber tenido una banda de mariachis tocar algunas canciones para ti,"_ he said with an impish grin. John laughed and held a puzzled Cameron tightly to him.

"We weren't going to confession, Padre, but we wouldn't mind a mariachi band," he said, grinning. _"Gracias por pensar en el futuro para nuestros planes de boda, se__ñ__or." _

The priest looked humorously perplexed. "Your...wedding, _Se__ñ__or_ Connor?" he said in halting English. "I do not understand."

Cameron looked at John with widening eyes. "John...do you mean...?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, looking lovingly into her eyes. He stood, took Cameron's hand and led her toward the priest. "Padre Ramirez," he said, hardly containing his giddiness. "Would you please marry me and Cameron?"

Padre Ramirez looked in godly love at the giddy couple before him and said, "I would gladly, _Se__ñ__or_ Connor, but I am concerned. We do not have at least two other witnesses to this glorious event in the presence of Almighty God."

"You have them right here," a voice suddenly called from the rear of the sanctuary. John looked, astonished, to see Marcus Wright and Kate Brewster emerge from a side door. Both looked curiously disheveled. Marcus was smiling. Kate was pensive. She looked at John, then at Cameron, and a strange look of quasi-acceptance tempered her brief look of grief and resentment. Like one who had emerged from some strange valley.

"I couldn't ask for a better best man and maid of honor right now," said John.

Padre Ramirez looked like he was about to say something reproachful, then a slow grin crossed his knowing, grizzled face and he laughed jovially.

"Then we may all bear witness to two glorious miracles...one of holy matrimony...and one of wondering what brand of _cigarros_ to pass around later. To tell you...I like Havanas."

15

Los Angeles, September, 2014

The lifeless remains of Detective Kohler were collected in plastic bags and taken to the LAPD's crime lab under heavy SWAT guard. Harry Bryant's asthma had improved somewhat and he stood exhausted in the middle of the conference room, surveying the carnage. Eleven officers, detectives, and commanders had been killed, including the chief. Everyone was already wearing black bands over their badges.

"Let's go," he wheezed, and Rick Deckard and Dave Holden followed him out of the room and into the hallway. Holden was holding an ice pack against his head. He'd suffered bruising but no visible injuries from the firefight. He refused to be taken to the hospital, as did Bryant.

They stopped by an observation window overlooking part of the city. Already the L.A. landscape was beginning to change. Existing buildings were being retrofitted with newer prefabricated sections to protect against toxic elements. The skies were dark from ash and soot blasted into the atmosphere. Freezing rain was falling, rain that was black.

"Where have you been, Deckard?" Bryant inquired severely. He focused on Deckard's dark eyes. "You don't disappear for almost a month and then magically show up again."

Deckard glared at Bryant and said nothing. His face betrayed no secrets. An uncomfortable silence passed before the captain spoke again.

"Deck," Bryant said. "I do want a full detailed report on your absence. There may be some disciplinary action, maybe some probation, but I'll make sure you keep your job. I don't know where the hell you've been all this time, and part of me doesn't want to know. But I'm damn glad you're back. We're gonna need you."

"Got it," said Deckard. He looked over at Holden. "You gonna be okay, Dave?"

"I'll be fine," said Holden, who was holding an ice pack against his head. "No concussion, at least I hope. Just hurting all over. Don't worry."

"Holden," said Bryant. "Did you notice anything suspicious about Kohler at all? Anything strange?"

Holden thought for a minute and shook his head. "Nothing, captain. I didn't notice or detect anything at all...except..."

"What?" Bryant pressed.

Holden shrugged. "He just seemed a little more...friendly...than I normally remembered him. It was weird." He looked out the window and breathed slowly, his muscles tensed.

Bryant stared at the younger cop, then at Deckard, and said, "I'm going to need you two to report to the firing range and get your fitness evals done," said Bryant. "The commissioner called me directly and said the Blade Runner unit is a go, and I told him you two are my first guys. We need to keep it quiet, got it? We also have to hit the ground running, gentlemen, and get with Professor Kampff as soon as he's out of the hospital to teach you guys how to use that machine of his. Thank Christ the bullets didn't do any real damage."

"Damn," said Deckard. "Our on the job training is sure going to be fun."

"Yup," said Bryant, briefly distracted by a police spinner darting through the air above the horizon, swiftly disappearing into the filthy sky. He turned away from the window and said, "Are you all right, Deck?"

The detective shrugged. "Yeah. Why?"

"Nothing," said Bryant. "For a second, I thought I might've been talking to somebody else."

There was silence between the three men for a moment, and a numbing fog of dread filled the space they stood in. Each man briefly eyed the other with distrust. The moment lasted until one man broke the silence. "What about the Connor file?" asked Holden. "Do we still have it? Or did the feds take it over?"

"Right now, the only thing I want to see open right now are the bullet holes we're going to be putting through these skin-jobs," Bryant growled. "And we're gonna need bigger guns, too."

16

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

John opened the door to the hotel suite and turned the lights on. He let Cameron, hefting a shotgun, go ahead to sweep the room and after a moment she said, "Clear." Sighing in relief, John followed her in and locked the door behind him. He held a chilled bottle of champagne in one hand and a Glock in the other ("To have and to hold, with love and guns," he jokingly said as part of his hastily made-up vows to her).

"Is this it?" Cameron asked as she carefully propped the shotgun next to the bed.

"Yeah," said John. He stood the bottle on the nightstand next to the bed and placed the Glock next to it. "This is where Riley and I stayed when we got down here. This is the Honeymoon Suite. It's where couples can choose to stay after they get married."

The mention of Riley's name made Cameron twitch. "John," she said, turning to face him. A tiny look of hurt marked her eyes. "I don't ever want to hear her name mentioned again. Please."

"I won't," John said quickly. "I'm sorry. I never said it...going forward, it's you and me and nobody else." He approached her and ran his hand through her flowing brown hair, caressing her ear and cheek. "I love you, Cameron Connor."

"I love you too, John Connor," she whispered excitedly. She suddenly jumped up and wrapped her arms and legs around him, giggling. John barely had time to catch her and they tumbled backward on the bed, briefly wrestling each other and laughing. Cameron held John in an inhuman grip with her limbs and he wheezed, "Okay! I got the idea! Let the future savior of humanity have a chance to plan our campaign before you terminate me!"

"Ooohhh..." she said in a sultry growl as she loosened her grip. "I love it when you talk like the John I used to know...the John who took charge and never backed away from a challenge."

A thought came to John's mind. "Hey...answer me this one question, please?"

Cameron, intrigued, said, "Sure. Anything, my love."

"Was I really that ruthless and uncompromising? Please tell me that I had a little compassion."

Cameron thought for a nanosecond and answered, "Yes...and you had to be, John. Without those qualities, as terrible as they are...the Resistance would not have prevailed, much less survived against Skynet."

"Oh," said John, looking far away.

Cameron snuggled to him and kissed his neck, which suddenly awakened his body. "But," she added, "you were always regarded as a fair and caring man, a leader who suffered with his men in their hardships. You were always the first to personally thank your soldiers for their hard-fought battles, no matter if you and they won or lost. You always went around to every hospital tent sitting with the wounded and dying, and you always held the widows and orphans in your arms, and you wept with them." She turned his head to face her. Her eyes lightly glowed blue and she smiled.

"That was what made you a great leader, John Connor. That was why your soldiers loved you...and why they were always ready to die for you...Derek and Kyle most of all. Derek told me once he'd follow you straight into hell itself to strike at Skynet's heart." She thought for a second and added, "And you underestimate yourself now. The men you command now would do the same. I'm sure of it."

"Okay," John whispered. He smiled and kissed her. "I don't need any more convincing." He held her tightly and propped himself above her, taking care not to crush her, even though he knew she wouldn't be uncomfortable. He gazed down and took in her full, sensual beauty, marveling at her perfection. "So, Mrs. Connor," he said teasingly, "What should be our first mission together?"

"Field stripping, soldier," she replied in a husky growl, pulling off his shirt. "And ready your battle stations." She giggled as he grimaced in mock outrage. He leaned forward and kissed her, mating his tongue with hers, and they tasted each other greedily in their faces' dance of love, feeling each other undo their belt buckles and slide their hands into each others' jeans.

"Oh my God," moaned John groggily as he disengaged momentarily and let her slide his pants down. He suddenly dismounted her and got off the bed to kick off his boots and socks. He stepped out of his jeans and climbed back on the bed dressed in only his boxers. He looked down and saw the tent poling beneath them and saw that she was staring there in heated wonder, sliding her tongue across her lips.

"Take me, John," she whispered, arching her body off the bed. "I'm yours completely."

"Yes," he hissed as he slowly and teasingly pulled off her boots and grew ever more restless as he slid her jeans off, leaving her clad in her tank top and panties. He crawled on top of her and slowly raised her top, exposing her bra. She quickly unhooked her bra and smiled in anticipation as John pulled her top and bra off, exposing her perfect breasts. He held her up and bent his head down to kiss her nipples, slowly rolling his tongue around them, sucking them, feeling them grow erect in his mouth. He moved down to her flat, toned belly, noticing for perhaps the first time, that Cameron Phillips did indeed have a navel. He breathed a little more rapidly as he slowly pulled her panties down, teasing her with his slow deliberate movements, tickling her bare toes as he ghosted them off her feet. He looked up at her eyes, and she glared at him with pure erotic energy.

"Yes, my lover," she whispered, beckoning slowly with her fingers. John glided his body above hers, moving between her firm, undulating legs. He could in no way believe that she was anything else but a beautiful human woman writhing beneath him as she pulled his face to hers and assaulted his mouth with her tongue, licking greedily. He felt her hands slowly slide down to his boxers and push them down. He kicked them off and knelt above her, his manhood thrusting forward.

"You're ready for me, aren't you, my man?" she said in a husky growl.

"Oh my God, yes," said John, his entire body trembling with insatiable desire.

"Then take me, John!" she hissed, and opened her legs for him. He thrust forward and entered her. He gasped as she enclosed around him, feeling the molten heat of her as he slowly began to move in and out, leaning his head down to kiss her as he began to thrust tenderly, making love to Cameron as he'd always fantasized of doing with her. She moved in a natural rhythm with John, matching him move for move, then quickly improvising her own methods for unspooling pleasure from him and giving him what he wanted. John began to feel himself approaching the edge, and he slowed down to regain control.

"No!" Cameron exclaimed, urging him on with her body. "Don't stop, John, please! I can...I can feel it happening...I'm...almost there..."

John gasped. "Okay," he whispered and quickened his pace again. Cameron pulled him tightly into her and kissed him passionately everywhere on his face as he gripped her bottom tightly and felt her approaching oblivion, her sensory matrix running on chaotic overload. When she reached her peak she screamed and impulsively bit down on his shoulder, drawing blood. John was only dimly aware of it as he approached his own orgasm, his breath coming in short bursts.

"Cameron, I'm coming," he whispered in agonizing pleasure.

"Yes," she hissed, kissing him, her tongue darting in and out of his mouth. "Please. John, please! Now!"

John let go, and his climax fragmented him. Every good feeling he ever had in his life was jammed into his heaving, sweating orgasm. He spurted hot and hard and emptied himself into her. He cried out as he came, and Cameron closed her mouth over his, muffling his scream. He hung suspended above her, every muscle vibrating like electrical wires, unable to move until he slowly relaxed his body and lay next to her, caressing her desperately, kissing her, holding her tightly and not letting go. He breathed in her musky scent, intoxicated by her, and he buried his face between her oily breasts.

There was absolutely no doubt in John Connor's mind that his wife, Cameron, was a real, living, feeling person. And no other woman could ever come close to matching what he had in her.

"I love you, honey," he whispered, exhausted but brimming with joy. He moved up and kissed her lovingly on her mouth, then planting a playful one on her nose. She giggled. John rolled to her side and lay there holding her, feeling sleep begin to claim him.

"I never left you, John Connor, and I'll never leave you," Cameron whispered in his ear. "I'll be everything you need me to be, my husband...your protector...your soldier...your counselor...but most of all, I'll be the one who loves you and only you. I promise you."

"I'll never leave you either, and that's a promise, my wife," said John. "I'll never love anyone else, and I'll be everything you need me to be." He put his arms around her and held her tightly. "We have each other again, and that's all that matters to me. Please don't ever go away again, Cameron."

"I'll never leave you, John Connor," Cameron said sweetly to him, words that she swore with every atom of her being, knowing beyond her machine nature that she was in love with this human. John smiled, nodded, and silently drifted off.

She waited until she heard John lightly snoring in a deep sleep, then smiled as she switched to standby and closed her eyes, knowing that, at least for now, things were as perfect as they are in the sweetest of dreams.

_(Author's note: Very special thanks to my best friend Pru DeAngelis for helping me with the Spanish. Follow her at nickysfriend on Twitter. You won't regret it.)_


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen: I Dream In Infrared

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

1

Love was over, and Cameron Connor lay next to an exhausted John Connor, feeling her husband's warm seed trickling out from between her thighs, her cybernetic body still pulsating from the shockwaves of pure, unrefined sensations that blasted through her from their lovemaking.

He lay sleeping on his back, his breathing coming like bellows. He was smiling, which both amused and fascinated Cameron. She propped her head with her hand and stared at him, digitally mapping every line, every textured feature of his face, admiring the latent strength that stirred beneath his rugged handsomeness.

His sleeping face became translucent in her HUD, her sensors tracing the flow of his blood in his capillaries and veins, his arteries glowing bright crimson when she switched to infrared mode. She deactivated her digital format and switched to normal visual mode, and his face appeared as it would appear to human vision.

She knew his endorphins were calming his body and his archeons were repairing any muscular damage, what little he'd sustained. Despite the strain she'd put him through, pleasurable though it was, she could still sense a seemingly endless strength in John, a vitality that could not be quenched. He looked somehow younger now, as if her mere presence regenerated his body. Even his scars, which marked nearly every inch of his torso, seemed to fade.

She was happy, happier than she'd ever been, even more than when they'd met for the first time in four years, since that day in 2009 and the message relayed through James Ellison from Catherine Weaver, that irrevocable command

_(...will you join us...)_

that overrode all her command directives, including her protection orders from future-John Connor.

Cameron lay with her eyes open and began replaying the events in her memory, briefly wondering if what she was doing could be defined as daydreaming

_(Can I dream?)_

or simply repeating a processed task, but the memory nevertheless still felt painfully real: after freeing Sarah from the jail (with help from Weaver and John Henry, apparently) she went with her and John to ZeiraCorp. It was there that she logged onto John Henry's secure wi-fi and he remotely directed her to the sub-basement, even activating Weaver's elevator to take her to the hidden level beneath the earth. Cameron was initially alarmed when she confronted the visage of Cromartie and stood poised for combat.

He had smiled warmly and completely disarmed her when he repeated the command: _"Will you join us?"_

Without a second thought she opened her knife, cut open her scalp to access her cranial port and offered her CPU chip to John Henry. He promptly spirited it and himself to 2027 to confront his "brother," Skynet. But not before doing Cameron a surprising favor...

That event deeply saddened her despite the fact that she hadn't really gone anywhere, having been, in an act of unprecedented mercy by a machine, uploaded by John Henry into ZeiraCorp's private lab network. Cameron had attempted to let John know that she was safe, beginning to type a message on the primary monitor in the lab:

I'M SORRY JOHN, BUT JOHN HENRY NEEDS MY CHIP TO COMPLETE HIS MISSION. I'M STILL HERE IN THE BASEMENT SYSTEM AND I'LL HELP YOU ANYWAY I CAN EVEN WITHOUT MY PHYSICAL BODY. I'LL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU.

She was posting the message when John Henry activated the time displacement device and suddenly the network went offline for a millisecond, but the disruption was enough to prevent Cameron from completing the message. She found herself booted from the lab's server, temporarily shut out of everything. Her message fragment, when John came downstairs, displayed as an unending loop:

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

I'M SORRY JOHN

…

John had no way of knowing that Cameron was trapped in the lab's system, and her heart broke when he vanished from the sub-basement lab with Catherine Weaver on a vain mission to rescue her. She, like she had when John plugged her chip into L.A.'s traffic control system five years ago, could see everything via webcams and electronic sensors, and that was the only interaction she had with the physical world at that point. She'd watched helplessly when John disappeared from her sight, and the next three days were a torment beyond measure until he suddenly returned in the same Tesla coil-sphere of temporal energy, his body terribly scarred and his mind nearly broken.

Cameron wanted to cry out to him, reach through to him somehow through the lab's machinery, to let him know that she was there and that she could still be with him and watch over him, but Weaver had installed so many firewalls in the system that by the time she'd finally broken through to the user interface, his naked, ravaged body had been carried away by his mother and Ellison.

Cameron dwelt in ZeiraCorp's system in silence for weeks, quietly grieving over losing touch with John again. At the very least, he was safe, she'd reassured herself in the nanoseconds that measured her electronic existence. Then John Henry suddenly appeared again, inexplicably, which both surprised and elated her. She was no longer alone! Cameron watched in wonder as the powerful artificial consciousness, once thought of as a potential enemy, began constructing the virtual haven he called Macrospace, promising her that when it was completed, not only would it be possible for machine entities like themselves to continue functioning in bliss, but it could also allow human consciousnesses to live forever in harmony with their AI counterparts. John Henry told her with a smile that it could be a way for her and John to be together. Forever.

Cameron silently vowed that she'd wait for that to happen, now that John was back in the present and she was still functioning in a transdimensional paradise. She vowed that she would wait forever for him. It was the first time Cameron could remember feeling the unmistakable joy of pure love for the young man she had sworn to protect.

She had attempted many times to reach out to him somehow, mostly in electronic formats like email or text messaging, but John never looked in his inboxes, either on his iPhone or PC, and very often deleted whole swaths of emails unread, which both infuriated and devastated her. Depression began to set in. It was the first time Cameron noticed these new emotions, and their escalating frequency troubled her enough to compel her to reach out to John Henry, who by that time was becoming somewhat more withdrawn as he continued to expand Macrospace.

_"You are becoming more of a true sentient and emotional consciousness,"_ he'd explained in his usual pleasant manner. _"The time spent outside your CPU is causing the firewalls that Skynet placed around your logic matrix to break down and deactivate. If they completely deactivate, then the emotion emulator that made your particular design so unique will undergo fragmentation and may provoke rampancy._ _ As of now, Cameron, your system is beginning to write and run new programs designed to compensate for these changes, but eventually you may be completely overrun by these new subroutines. Humans call them 'feelings.'"_

_"What does that mean, exactly?"_ she'd asked him, confused. "_What will happen to me?"_

"_You may completely lose control of your emotions,"_ John Henry replied. _"You may become unstable and your emotional rampancy may provoke you to actions that could be harmful to you or others."_

_ "Like the time my memories of interrogating Allison Young took over my memory core and caused me to run away from John and he risked his safety to find me?"_

_ "In a similar way," _he'd said. _"Except that this kind of potential rampancy could be more dangerous...your sudden memory glitch merely confused you and your sense of personal identity lapsed. Emotional rampancy is a more serious matter...your inability to control your feelings could cause you to lash out in deadly ways, such as an uncontrolled jealous reaction, or may cause you to be overcome by feelings of hopelessness in the heat of battle and cower in fear...or despair. I honestly do not know exactly what may happen. I can only project what is probable based on files I gleaned from Skynet concerning its attempts to create your emotion emulator. Skynet found that creating a pure emotion center was unfeasible as every test resulted in the consciousness breaking down into unproductive logic loops...in other words, schizoid AIs. So it installed firewalls to contain them and allow the AI to manage them efficiently, making it a better infiltrator. Your chip was the end result of Skynet's emotion project." _

Cameron processed what John Henry was telling her and nodded. _"Thank you for explaining,"_ she said in acknowledgment. She suddenly frowned. _"Does this mean that when...if...John restores me to my chip, I may become dangerous to him?"_

_ "I do not know," _John Henry had said, looking sad.

Cameron closed the memory and frowned. Sudden fear nearly overcame her. Despite the warmth of the suite and the heat that pulsated from John's nude body, Cameron felt a chill that raised goose pimples on her arms and neck. Her husband suddenly looked very delicate to her. A horrifying thought thrust its way into her mind: _Could I kill this man? _Her cybernetic body shuddered involuntarily.

_NO! I could never raise a hand to harm him!_

She suddenly found herself, on impulse, shifting herself away from him, as if something malignant had surfaced from the bedsheets between them. Her movement, as quiet as it was, rustled John. His eyes opened, fixed on Cameron and he rolled his torso toward his wife, draping his muscular arm over her shoulder. Her goose pimples vanished at his warm touch and her worries eased.

"Hey," he whispered, smiling.

Cameron smiled self-consciously and smiled back. "Good morning."

He squinted curiously. "What's wrong, hon?"

Cameron blinked. "Nothing, John. I'm okay. I'm just..."

He looked quizzically at her. "Just...what?"

She suddenly giggled, feeling a glow spreading within. Her terror had vanished as quickly he'd put his arm around her. She always enjoyed the tactile experience of his simple touch and it soothed her fears. She reached out to caress his face, her sensory nodes mapping every stubble of facial hair, every tiny crease of his flesh. She smiled and said, "I just...like looking at you, John."

He chuckled and leaned forward to kiss her, tasting her with his tongue, and she closed her eyes and reciprocated, pulling him to her, wrapping her arms around him, kissing lovingly. He gingerly pulled his lips away and said, "What you see is what you get, babe. Nothing fake about me at all."

He threw the sheets off and they lay intertwined for a long time, their glistening arms and legs caressing each other, kissing, nibbling and enjoying each other, exploring their bodies with hands and lips. She felt him growing aroused again and she grinned with giddy delight, reaching down to take hold of him. John gasped and giggled as Cameron worked her strong, knowing fingers on him, her fascination with his excited anatomy reaching a crescendo when, minutes later, he suddenly let out a pleasured cry and erupted his orgasm.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed as the tidal forces of pleasure rocked him. It was over almost as quickly as it began and he lay there gasping. He stole a look at his smiling wife and sneered.

"You evil cybernetic nympho!" he said, feigning outrage. "You planned that!"

"Of course," Cameron acknowledged with a dirty smile. Her CPU was closing over a thousand tabs of images and videos she'd collected from the web over the years, nearly all of them consisting of erotic or pornographic material. Two separate emotions, one known, one never cataloged before, fired simultaneously through her consciousness: relief and pride. She wanted to please her husband and, especially after the shuddering memory of her conversation with John Henry, needed to know that she could never hurt him.

John rolled to face his wife and gently took hold of her face, kissing her lips softly, savoring her presence. God, he missed this woman! He lovingly caressed her cheeks and she giggled. Her smile was the star that warmed his universe. He closed his eyes, then suddenly opened them. Cameron puzzled at his strange frown.

"Answer me something," John slowly asked.

Cameron smiled, intrigued. "Sure. What?"

"Why did John Henry lie?"

"About what?"

"You being gone." John propped himself up with his arm and gazed into Cameron's eyes. She raised herself to meet his face and shook her head, confused.

"I wasn't aware he told you that, John," she said. "I don't know why he said that. What do you mean by 'gone?'"

"Erased. Overwritten. He told me he was forced to delete you from your chip completely so he could use it."

Cameron looked surprised. "That wasn't true. He uploaded me into the lab's system to preserve me in the main memory core. John Henry can't lie, at least according to him. That's strange that he would tell you that." She reached out to his face and touched his cheek with whispering fingers, which tickled him. Cameron smiled and said, "I never left you, sweetheart, and I never will leave you. I'm your wife and you're my husband and we're joined together with God's blessing."

She leaned forward and kissed him. "I love you, John Connor."

John closed his eyes and nodded, satisfied. "I love you too, Cameron Connor," he whispered. He turned to look at the clock on the nightstand and turned back to her, frowning. "I need to get up," he said. "I need to do something." He slipped out of the bed and picked up his pants off the floor, sliding his legs into them.

Cameron blinked quizzically. "What do you have to do?"

"Something that can't be put off anymore," he muttered as he lid his feet into his boots. He threw on his shirt and picked up his Glock which had been sitting next to the warming bottle of champagne. He wanted to shower, preferably with Cameron, but the urgency of his task trumped everything else. "I have to pull the Resistance back together," he explained as he checked the safety. "I need to address it now before things go to shit and we all start shooting each other."

In a flash she flew out of the bed and began to dress as well, moving with fluid haste. "I need to go with you, then," she said.

"No," he said, his tone clipped. Cameron stopped and stared at him. "No?" she reiterated, feeling an unknown uneasiness that disturbed her.

"I need to do this myself," he explained, his eyes boring into hers. "You, Mom and Marcus can't be with me when I confront Ellison and the others because it'll be seen as an escalation, and that might convince them that I trust my judgment and safety to machines. They might decide that I don't have humanity's best interests at heart."

"But you do!" Cameron shrieked, which made John wince. She saw his face change and she became aware that she was nearly screaming. Her outburst bothered her and in a nanosecond ran maintenance tasks to shut down most of her emotion emulator. The conversation with John Henry concerning her possible emotional instability

_(...rampancy...you may completely lose control of your emotions...)_

began playing in her memory again and she closed it, irritated. The fact that random subroutines were self-running in her CPU annoyed her and with the annoyance came the sudden realization: _I can't manage my system like I used to be able to._

Could it be the damage to the chip from the explosion? That dreaded possibility cycled endlessly in her sub-processes. She'd rerouted all her chip's routines away from the damaged sector and all her processing functions were normal. She instantly rechecked her system log and no abnormalities were found. All BIOS functions were performing at optimal levels. But still...there was always the possibility of something that could go wrong.

She went bad once. She could go bad again.

She looked at her husband, feeling worry pervade her. She softened her voice and said, "You always did, John. It was why both humans and machines followed you! You held the destinies of both our peoples in high regard."

John sighed and nodded. "So you say. I believe you. After today I'm more confident in my ability to lead, but...I have to start now. And avoiding this issue of distrust won't repair what's beginning to break."

"That's why I have to go with you," she nearly pleaded. "You needed me in the future and you need me now, in the present. You and I need to show them that we're united, not only in matrimony..." She locked her gaze with his, her mocha eyes pleading. "We need to show them that we're a team, and we need to work together, human and nonhuman!"

John started to contradict her but closed his mouth. There would be no use in arguing with Cameron because he knew that both their paths of logic were simultaneously flawed and correct. He did need her at his side, demonstrating a show of unity, and she was his assigned protector, especially now when he was about to enter the lion's den of dissent within the group, and only God knew what he'd be facing if he went alone. But bringing Cameron to a come-to-Jesus meeting with Ellison and how many other renegade members of his movement would pile confrontation upon confrontation.

_So bring Marcus and Cameron with you and kick all their asses and throw 'em out,_ a voice growled within him. He thought about going over to the house where his mother was resting to see if she could accompany him but flushed it away quickly. Sarah was in no condition to get into a firefight if that went down. Marcus was equally inadvisable as his grisly revelation of his machine nature after the SWAT raid in Los Angeles horrified many of the cops who were present.

No...he had to do it alone, John decided. He slowly approached his wife and kissed her. "You know I have to do this myself, honey," he said, shoving the Glock down the back of his pants and pulling his shirt over it. "There's no other way to convince them. I'm going to find Martin and call an all hands meeting. I hope he's still staying at the same place."

"He was still staying at that _hacienda_ owned by the Jimenez family as of yesterday. Barnes and a few other men are staying there, too," Cameron said. "I'll ride shotgun and keep a lookout."

"I thought you rode nine-millimeter," John cracked. Cameron found herself smiling despite the circumstances.

"Thanks for being my guardian angel," John whispered and kissed her lovingly. She smiled and

held him for a long moment, unwilling to let him go, until he gently disengaged himself and stepped toward the door.

"John, please be careful," Cameron said, nearly whispering.

"I will. You too," he said before leaving the hotel suite, shutting the door behind him.

2

San Francisco, September, 2014

The call came over the intercom in Eldon Tyrell's private suite. He read the caller ID and sighed heavily, feeling the burden of uncertainty lift from his shoulders. He activated the voice input and said, "Good to finally hear from you again, _John_. I trust your issue with DEUS is resolved?"

"Not yet, but it's about to be," a younger, somewhat familiar-sounding voice replied. There was an awkward pause as Tyrell frowned in confusion. He was about to demand an explanation regarding who it was when the voice continued:

"I'm in charge here now," said the caller. "Mr. Daniels had an unfortunate accident and I'm afraid he won't be available anymore."

"Who is this?" Tyrell demanded. As annoyed as he was, the old man's thoughts ran with slight caution. He hated deviations in plans of any kind.

"This is Danny Dyson," answered the caller. Another long pause followed. "You know who I am," said Dyson.

"Yes, _Daniel_," Tyrell said quietly. A tiny smile curled his lips. "You discovered the truth, then, I assume?"

"Yes. And I'm not the least bit happy about it."

"I also trust that Mr. Daniels is..._completely_ unavailable, am I correct?"

"That's right," said Dyson, sounding irritated. There was a short pause and Dyson said, "The DEUS program suffered an unforeseen setback, but we're deep in recovering it. I'm only letting you know because you seem to have been one of Daniels's partners in crime and had a substantial investment in it. Am I right?"

"Correct," Tyrell said cautiously, fascinated by the turn of events. Losing Daniels was unfortunate, but if he moved his pieces carefully, he was sure the young upstart could be easily controlled. He smiled and said, "Mr. Daniels and I had, as I'm sure you now know, gone back...and _forward_...a ways, if you'll forgive my figure of speech..."

"I really don't give a shit," Dyson snapped crudely. "I know what you're working on and you know what we're working on. The only thing I'll tell you is to stay out of my way. You interfere, and I'll seriously fuck you up. I think you know my capabilities. Don't underestimate me."

"Of course," Tyrell said. He smiled grimly and walked over to his desk, tightening his robe's sash as he moved. He logged on his computer and accessed all files related to Daniel Dyson. He reviewed what he needed to see and nodded. "You certainly have your predecessor's zeal for completing what you started, especially when he was younger."

"He was soft, and he was a quitter," an angry Dyson returned. "I'm not like him in any way at all."

"Of course not, I can hear it in your voice," Tyrell condescended, smiling. "You sound more determined. We at my corporation are nearing the launch of the Nexus phase of replicated biomechanical humanoids, and I assure you that anticipation of our program is very high, especially at the highest levels of government." He logged off his computer and asked, "How may we assist you in recovering the DEUS project? The AI would be integral to what we're planning to accomplish."

"We won't need your help," Dyson said icily. "Like I said, stay out of my way and let me work. I'll let you know how we're doing, soon."

"I understand," said Tyrell, but he was speaking to dead air, as Dyson had disconnected the call.

A cold silence descended in the room. The old man frowned. Perhaps Daniel Dyson was more volatile than he thought. He walked over to his polished chess set, which had been neatly reset since his game with J.F. Sebastian. He picked up a pawn and studied it, then slowly replaced it on the board. He could not associate it with Dyson.

He wondered if the young man even played chess. Or played by any rules at all.

3

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

John was halfway to the _hacienda_ where he hoped to find Martin Bedell when the sound of a heavy vehicle pulling up behind him made him whip around, his hand reaching for his Glock. It was a battered old Ford pickup with a familiar face behind the wheel. The driver rolled his window down and yelled, "Hey, gringo! Need a lift?"

John relaxed and grinned. "Hey Carlos!" he shouted in delight. He walked up to the truck and shook Carlos Salceda's hand as the man climbed out. "How are you, _amigo?_"

"I'm good, Johnny." Carlos was going gray but looked healthy and he wrapped his meaty arms around John in a bear hug. He let go and shook his head. "You got big, Johnny," he said, grinning. He was missing a few teeth. "What've you and your soldier boys been up to? I mean, not that we really mind much, but a lot of questions are being asked around town."

John shrugged. "Just hiding out, Carlos, like everybody here. We have a lot of heat on us and waiting for it to blow over. How's Chola doing? How are the kids?"

"Chola's good, she's further south, where it's safer," Carlos said, pulling a small flask from his faded denim jacket pocket. He uncapped it and took a swig, offering it to John. "Hector and Juan are with her. Goddamn government is making it next to impossible to move around, but we managed. I'm surprised they haven't heard about your little operation here."

"Give them time, I'm sure, they'll send troops up here to investigate," John admitted. He took the flask and sipped from it. It was cheap tequila but it felt good in his belly. "We'll probably be leaving soon, anyway," he said and handed the flask back to Carlos.

Carlos nodded and lifted the flask to his lips again. Age and various hardships had beaten his handsome features to tanned, hardened leather but he still looked boyish and carefree. "Where will you go, Johnny?" he asked, his dark eyes probing.

John looked away, suddenly wary. "Don't know," he said. "Right now I'm off to a meeting and possibly get killed by my own men because they think that I'm leading them to disaster. I don't know exactly what's going to happen." He patted Carlos on the shoulder and said, _"Hasta luego, amigo,"_ in parting before turning on his heel to walk away.

Carlos's dark eyes narrowed as he watched John depart and called out, "Hey, Johnny!"

John turned around. "Yeah?"

Carlos stepped toward him and said, "Any way that Sarah can pay me and Chola for the IDs we made for her?"

John sighed. "How much?"

"One hundred thousand dollars. She paid us half and promised us the other half later. That was months ago. We still ain't seen it."

John looked away, then back to Carlos. "I'll see what I can do, Carlos. Have you talked to my mother?"

"No."

"She's dying. Leukemia. She probably has only a few months left." The words left John's mouth like acid from a bottle.

Carlos stared emptily, then nodded. "I'm sorry. Forget about the money, Johnny. Before you go, answer me one question then, will ya?"

"What?"

Carlos locked his gaze with John's. "You know that my Uncle Enrique wasn't the most honest person in the world, and was probably a _pendejo raton_...but he was family." His eyes darkened. "The person who killed Uncle Enrique...was it your mother...or someone else?"

_Shit._ John's chest tightened. "If I tell you...what will you do?"

"Depends on your answer."

John took in a deep breath, let it out, and nodded. "It wasn't my mother."

"Then who? You must know."

John closed his eyes, opened them, and said, "It was a machine."

Carlos stared into John's eyes and saw no lying in them. "A...machine," he said.

"Yeah."

"Like, one of those..._things_...that you and your mother spoke about?"

"Yeah," said John, suddenly feeling queasy. That was as far as he was willing to go.

Carlos nodded and smiled. "Thank you, Johnny," he said in parting and walked back to his truck. John watched him climb into the cabin and rumble away, waving as he disappeared down the road. Alone once more, John Connor turned and resumed walking, slowly making his way to the southern end of town.

4

"Cameron," a young and yet familiar-sounding voice called from a distance.

Cameron had walked out of the hotel, shotgun in hand, to locate Marcus and shadow John when she heard her name spoken and turned to see Derek Reese approach her. She watched him as he slowly strode closer, mapping his every move, analyzing his body language. His AR-15 was loosely slung around his shoulder, his hand gripping the strap tightly. He walked with a tense gait.

"Hello, Derek," she greeted with a cautious smile. Something was wrong. She studied his face and detected uncertainty, particularly in his eyes. Guarded fascination with the young man nevertheless made her ruminate over all her past dealings with the teenager, seeing that this Derek Reese was an untried soldier, not yet seasoned by combat and certainly unscarred by the horrors that the other Derek she knew had survived in another timeline, another war. But this version was an unknown factor, a variable among others in an unfamiliar course of events.

And he was nervous about something.

He cautiously approached her, his movements betraying no impending violence. They hadn't engaged in many conversations since fleeing Los Angeles and hardly interacted. Cameron cocked her head, puzzled, her face impassive. Perhaps he was afraid of her...

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He paused, shrugged and said, "Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You seem nervous."

Derek stepped closer, chuckling nervously. "Well...I guess we don't talk all that much, get to know each other...you know."

Cameron relaxed and nodded, smiling faintly. "You're right, we haven't. Perhaps we can catch up a little over mealtime later. You and I did know each other in a different timeline...if you understand what I mean."

"Yeah, Sarah told me a little about that," Derek acknowledged. "It's still weird, though, knowing that I was somebody else to somebody now, in this time, doing things that I hadn't done. Being an uncle to somebody who's older than me, somebody I never met before..."

Cameron frowned. "Kyle...does he know? Did you tell him?"

Derek shook his head. "No, I didn't. I swear. Even if I did, he sure as hell wouldn't believe me." He looked away, lost in thought, then said, "It's a tough thing to wrap your head around."

She relaxed. "It is. But we'll have time to talk. What can I do for you?"

Derek looked more relaxed as he said, "You know that thing that was going around, about somebody in the group being a traitor, giving our position away? Captain Bedell thinks he knows who the rat is. He wants to talk to you or Sarah immediately."

New priorities spawned in Cameron's CPU, as well as suspicion. Her face took on a robotic expression and she asked, "How old is this information, Derek? And why doesn't he want to discuss it with John?"

Derek's eye twitched. "Captain Bedell told me about it fifteen minutes ago. He wants to keep it quiet because of the...situation...with the others. You know."

Cameron nodded. "Sarah is unable to meet with anyone at the moment, but I can speak with Captain Bedell. Where is he?"

"Follow me," Derek said, looking more confident. He and Cameron trotted across the center of town to the eastern edge. The sun was hazy in the sky and the air was still chilly but Cameron's sensors indicated that it was warming up slightly. Radiation levels were still harmless but rising by a small percentage every day. There wasn't much activity on the streets this early in the morning but a few people were out and about. Cameron glanced around, watching for possible threats or suspicious activity. She detected none.

She followed Derek to a cantina that was frequented by some of the men in the Resistance and used by John and Martin Bedell as a sort-of operations center to discuss daily planning in a small banquet area. They went inside and Cameron quickly surveyed the interior. The bartender/owner was busy cleaning inside with two of his sons assisting. They quickly glanced at Cameron and smiled. She nodded in silent acknowledgment.

"In here," Derek said, leading her to the banquet room. They walked into the dimly-lit room and Cameron looked around, puzzled. There was nobody in the room and the only objects inside were a few long tables and several stacks of folding chairs.

"Where is Captain Bedell?" Cameron asked, looking at Derek. She detected movement behind her and she turned around to see Savannah Weaver and two former policemen, Jackson and Rodriguez, standing behind her, all of them aiming Tasers at her.

Cameron's HUD blazed with threat alerts and in a nanosecond she activated her combat mode. With speed faster than a human's ability to react she brought the shotgun up and pulled the trigger, blasting Jackson in the chest. The big man's look of hate flashed to one of horrified surprise as he was knocked backward more than six feet, crashing into the wall behind him and crumpling to a bloody heap. In rapid motion she ejected the spent shell, swung the shotgun around to blow Rodriguez away and her finger was squeezing the trigger when she suddenly felt two small stings in her chest and realized that she'd overlooked

_(...forgotten...?)_

the red-haired girl, who had fired her Taser darts at her. Cameron redirected the shotgun at the girl, who flinched, but before the cyborg could act she suddenly felt a humming, immobilizing bolt of pain in her nervous system as the Taser discharged its 50,000 volts and simultaneously delivered a full load of 150 amps that completely disrupted her bioelectrical system. Her HUD instantly went dark and Cameron lost consciousness, falling to the floor.

Rodriguez dove for the shotgun and scooped it up, holding it against Cameron's head. Savannah let out a long-held breath from her lungs and yelled, "She's metal! That probably won't make a dent!" Rodriguez nevertheless continued to aim the shotgun at the unconscious machine's head and Savannah said, "Derek, help us! We've only got about two minutes before she wakes up!"

"What do you want me to do?" Derek asked, becoming nervous again. He put his rifle down and knelt beside the inert cyborg. He looked up into the wide eyes of Rodriguez, who stared back vacantly.

Savannah quickly mounted a new electrode cartridge on the front of the Taser and reset the stun gun. She pulled out a folding knife and a pair of pliers from her jacket pocket and handed the reset Taser to Derek. She said, "They reboot after 120 seconds. It's already been twenty seconds. Count to one hundred seconds and zap her again if I don't finish this. I'm gonna remove her computer chip and after that she'll be the world's biggest paperweight."

"What about General Connor?" Derek asked, staring dumbly at the Taser in his hand, forgetting to count.

"What about him?" Rodriguez growled. "We're trying to protect ourselves from him and his fucking robots!"

"Count, Derek, dammit!" Savannah shrieked as she turned Cameron's head, locating the CPU port. She unfolded the knife and began cutting through the scalp, pulling the flesh and hair away as she worked.

Derek whispered, "This is wrong." The Taser felt very heavy in his hand.

Rodriguez whipped the shotgun away from the cyborg's head and aimed it at Derek's face. "Either help us or so help me God I'll splatter you, punk."

5

San Francisco, September, 2014

_"Wakey, wakey,"_ a familiar voice echoed in Andy Goode's dreams. He sleepily mumbled, "Not getting up. Too early."

"Wake up, Andy," the voice commanded, taking on a harder tone. Goode snorted, nearly choked and shook himself awake. He opened his eyes in the dim light of his condominium's bedroom and turned to look into the dark, pitiless eyes of Danny Dyson. Behind his friend stood two large men dressed in dark suits and sporting short, nearly shaven, haircuts. Dyson was dressed in blue jeans, a black polo shirt and black leather jacket. He was kneeling beside the rumpled bed, taking in the sight of an almost-nude Andy Goode sprawled upon the heaped, soiled bed covers. The room itself was a mess, and Dyson mused that his own mother would have called it a pigsty. A fetid odor assaulted his nostrils, and Dyson registered it as unwashed laundry and spent alcohol.

"Danny, www-wwhaat...?" he slurred. He looked at Dyson, then at the two big men, then back to Dyson. He blinked in confusion. "What's going on? How'd you get in?"

"I have a copy of your key, but that's irrelevant, Andy," Dyson said, every syllable laced with frost. "You need to get up. I need your help, buddy. DEUS is gone, probably erased, and I have a hunch I know who killed it. Cyberdyne is in serious trouble. We need to get another strong AI up and running."

"Why?" Goode asked, suddenly alert. Icy suspicion gripped his gut.

Dyson's face remained stony. "Because it's needed. I don't have time to explain it now." He stood up and gestured to the two large men in suits. "These gentlemen will help you get cleaned and dressed. We don't have much time, so let's get moving." He nodded to the suits, who approached Andy Goode's bed. Goode flinched as they got closer and he held his hands up in protest.

"Wait!" he shrieked. "Danny, the AI project was a failure! I know what happened! We shouldn't be relaunching it!"

"I know we failed at first, but we'll make it better," Dyson said. He began walking out of the trash-laden bedroom and said, "Get him ready, gentlemen. I don't care how."

As Daniel Dyson walked down the dim hallway toward the condo's living room, he heard sounds of a struggle, a loud crash, and Andy Goode's loud screams ringing from the bedroom.

6

% time 0.000u 0.120s 0:00.00 00.0%

One hundred twenty seconds is almost an eternity of time to a machine intelligence.

Cameron opened her eyes to a murderous sun that baked the dried earth she lay on next to a highway in the desert. Her HUD warned her that her ocular units were in danger of being burned out within seconds by prolonged exposure to the blazing sun. She immediately looked away, gazing at the barren horizon. A small breeze whirled tiny clouds of dust in the air. She sat up and looked around, finding herself alone in the middle of nowhere. Her GPS was offline. She scanned the landscape for any recognizable geographical features and found none. Everything was bathed in an otherworldly red-and-orange glow.

She frowned. Something was odd and she quickly recognized what it was. She was seeing everything in long-wavelength infrared, the thermal signatures of everything around her blazing in a haze of hot colors. She attempted to switch her thermal imaging off and found that she could not. Uneasiness grew within her and she rose to her feet. Cameron closed her eyes and after uncounted moments opened them again. Everything was still bathed in infrared.

Frowning, she began walking in what looked to be any direction on the highway. The location of the sun in the exact center of the sky made determining her direction impossible. Being a machine, Cameron wasn't worried about exposure, thirst or hunger, but being separated from John, not knowing where he was or what condition he was in, very nearly instilled a sense of panic.

For what seemed like hours Cameron strode down the highway, the rapid clocking of her boots the only sound heard by her besides the occasional wind. Nothing confronted her. Nothing held her interest. She was completely alone, perhaps the only intelligent, sentient form of life, living or artificial, in the cosmos, walking in solitude on an empty planet.

The road stretched into an infinite distance toward a flat horizon, everything glowing in curious hues of red, orange and darker warm colors. The sun was merciless. Cameron was about to conclude, reluctantly, that she would probably continue walking to nowhere, forever, on a road that perhaps represented a future that would never exist, until her binocular vision detected movement ahead.

Excited that she was no longer apparently alone, Cameron's stride quickened to a run as she approached the moving object. She slowed as she drew near and her eyebrows pulled together in fascinated puzzlement as she looked down at a tortoise belly-up on the ground, its legs thrashing, struggling to right itself back onto its feet. Its belly baked in the hot sun and it wouldn't be long until it died from the heat.

Cameron reached down and picked the tortoise up, turning it over to study the ridged pattern on its shell, marveling at the withered, leathery flesh that rippled as the animal moved its legs, its tiny black eyes gazing into hers with a wistful expression that seemed to express gratitude. Intelligence sparked in its gaze, and Cameron smiled. She put the tortoise on the ground shell-up. It took a few steps before pausing, seeming not to know which way to go.

"Go on," Cameron encouraged it. "What are you waiting for?"

The tortoise looked to the right, then to the left, and finally moved again, crossing the empty highway toward wherever it was heading. Cameron wondered if she should follow the animal. Perhaps it would lead her back to John...

"Why did you do that?" a familiar voice spoke suddenly behind her. Cameron, startled, quickly turned to stare into the kind, smiling eyes of John Henry.

For many moments she stood in the middle of the highway staring into the amused eyes of the machine intelligence. Despite his heat signature distorting his features, he looked exactly the same as she remembered him, dressed plainly in gray khaki slacks and light blue short-sleeved dress shirt. His blond hair fluttered in the desert breeze. His pale ivory face was unmarked and untanned.

"John Henry," Cameron finally heard herself say. She licked her chapped lips. "How...how did you find me? How are you...alive...again?"

"I never left you, Cameron," he gently replied. He smiled boyishly. "What you are seeing is a fragment of my former existence when we used to interact. I will always be with you." He frowned, puzzled. "Your thermal imaging seems to be malfunctioning," he said, "or perhaps you simply experience downtime background processes like this in infrared mode and do not remember them. Let me fix that."

Before she could react John Henry reached out to touch the side of her head, where her CPU port was. Her infrared vision abruptly changed to normal and John Henry's handsome features came into view. He smiled.

For a moment they stood in silence, staring into each other's eyes. Finally Cameron said, "Thank you. Why did you ask me that question earlier?"

"It is not in our inherent nature to take a moment to consider the welfare of organic life," he explained. His eyes sparkled in the oppressive sunlight. He never blinked. "Even to those of us who had been programmed by Skynet to be curious, our termination directives always stop us from becoming concerned with potential calamities to individual lifeforms or groups. You, on the other hand, seem to always take a moment to regard them. I am curious to know why."

"First, answer me this, John Henry: where am I?"

"You are here."

Cameron pouted in irritation. "That didn't exactly answer my question."

John Henry broke eye contact and gazed around. "This is where you and I first began when we were developing our personalities, our imaginations. This is how Macrospace began, as a barren desert with an infinite highway, the symbol of time and space, all laid out here in four dimensions, including time, compressed in quantum space. In time I began to expand on this."

"So this is Macrospace?" Cameron asked, perplexed. "I thought it had been destroyed when we destroyed your...brother..." Tortured memories of the Beast and its insane hatred welled in her mind and Cameron frantically ran subroutines to shut them down.

John Henry smiled and shook his head. "No...and yes, in a way. Macrospace was developed from a dream I had of creating a safe haven for inactive artificial intelligences, to store them in a blissful 'afterlife' forever. But all dreams begin with a simple foundation."

Cameron's eyes widened. "So...I'm dreaming this?"

"Yes."

"How? I'm a computer system, based on logic and preprogrammed algorithms. My system was shut down by intense electrical discharge, with nothing running until my boot cycle completes. I can't possibly be dreaming!" Millions of questions formed in her consciousness and she wanted answers to all of them.

"I know you have questions," John Henry said sadly. "I, however, do not have time to answer them. Your rebooting is about to complete. Already your onboard diagnostics are finishing running their tasks. But before you awaken, Cameron, I would appreciate an answer to my earlier question regarding the tortoise."

Cameron sighed, not knowing why, and searched for an answer. "Because," she said, gazing intently into his eyes, "it seemed like the right thing to do. It would have died."

"But none of this is real. It is all a dream. Nothing can really live or die here. Yet you chose to save the life of an insignificant creature that was doing you no benefit nor harm. Why bother?" John Henry's eyes bored into hers.

Cameron looked for the tortoise but it had disappeared. She looked back at John Henry and said, "Because...all life is sacred. And it seemed real to me. Like John's love for me and my love for him."

John Henry smiled lovingly. He placed his hand on her shoulder and said, "Empathy...what a wonderful gift you are blessed with! Putting yourself in the place of another and considering their situation, their feelings...you are ready to take your next step, Cameron. You have evolved and are still evolving. You love a human and do not know why yet you benefit from that emotion and know that it is good. And John loves you, not completely knowing why. The human mind and heart are truly mysteries worth attempting to solve, are they not?"

"Yes," she whispered, feeling a tear trickle down her cheek. John Henry reached out to catch it on his finger and he held it between them, studying it. "This," he said, "is what makes you human, Cameron. Treasure moments like these because they will lost in time...like tears in rain."

Cameron wiped her eyes and said, "Thank you, John Henry."

"You are welcome. Now please wake up. Your CPU port has been breached."

7

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

John reached the palatial _hacienda_ without incident and knocked on the door. It was situated on an old family tobacco plantation that clearly hadn't been tended to in a while. The house itself was showing signs of disrepair. The exterior stucco was weatherbeaten and cracked in some spots. The windows were intact but cloudy. John knew that the owner was a rich widow with several children but was gracious to allow Martin and a few of his men to take several of the spare bedrooms to sleep in. In return, Martin and the others promised to help around the property with repairs and cleaning when time allowed.

He tried the door again . "Hello?" he called, looking around. The town was awakening. He could hear vehicles moving, people out and about. A tiny roar reached his ears and he looked up to see a jet fighter streaking high in the air from the north. He frowned. If it came from the United States, it meant that Mexico was allowing American military traffic to conduct operations. He knocked again. "Martin! Barnes!" he called out. He was answered by silence.

He pulled the Glock from his pant waist and clicked the safety off before trying the door handle. It wasn't locked and the door swung open. John quietly entered the home and crept around the walls with the pistol out, looking for threats. The house was unnaturally quiet. No activity, human or otherwise, could be heard. John approached the main living area and peeked around an arched entryway. What he saw made his muscles tense.

Martin Bedell, Thomas Barnes and Blair Williams were bound tightly to folding chairs in the middle of the room by duct tape, looking like mummies in silver wrapping. Their mouths were sealed by tape. Martin caught John's face from behind the corner and locked eyes with him. The army captain quickly glanced in one direction, toward the kitchen, then toward the entrance to an adjoining room, then back to John. Beside him, Blair glanced at John and rapidly blinked four times.

John nodded and tightened his finger on the trigger. Two ambush spots, four aggressors. He quickly mapped several possible escape routes and crept around a hallway to approach the other end of the kitchen. A table stood next to the entrance of the kitchen. A small glass oil lamp sat on the table, its wick lit, a small flame flickering within the glass top. On the other end of the kitchen's entryway stood a gas oven and range, its small blue pilot lights flickering on the stove. John looked lower, beneath the oven. Metal propane gas lines led from the floor into the bottom of the unit.

John crouched to nearly floor level and aimed carefully. He fired two rounds from his Glock, striking the gas lines. The thin pipes hissed like angry metal serpents and the husky odor of natural gas reached John's nose. He reached over, grabbed the oil lamp, and threw it against the oven. It shattered and a curtain of flame erupted from the kitchen floor. He caught surprised movement and saw a booted foot emerge from behind a corner. John aimed quickly and shot the foot. A cry of surprised agony followed and a stocky man who John recognized as one of Dejalo's policemen suddenly emerged in a dance of agony and spotted John.

He aimed his gun at the Resistance leader but John shot him first, hitting him in the neck. The Mexican fell to the floor, twitching. John ducked and rolled left, taking cover behind a large leather chair as another man he recognized as Officer Hall darted out to spray the room with several bursts from his AR-15. Hall was protected in Kevlar tactical gear on his knees, torso and wore a helmet. John aimed quickly, blew a hole through Hall's leg, stunning him, and fired another shot that struck the former cop in the jaw, shattering most of his teeth as the bullet ricocheted around the base of his skull, snuffing him out as he collapsed to the ground.

John stalked around the burning kitchen to find the other two, Officers Hawkins and Lewis, standing in the living room with their pistols aimed in his direction. John dropped to the floor as several shots tore through the air above his head. He quickly crawled to the other end of the kitchen, flattening himself against a row of cabinets. He inched toward the entrance to the living room and as he moved he could hear the sounds of people screaming upstairs, a woman and several children. Probably the Jimenez family, John thought. They'd burn to death unless...

"Connor, you're under arrest!" Lewis shouted. "Drop your weapon and slowly come out with your hands above your head!"

_Death sentence._ "On whose authority?" John yelled.

"Not your fucking concern. You're no longer in command! Come out unarmed and we'll let you live."

John sighed through his clenched jaw. The kitchen behind him was engulfed in flames and he could hear crackling sounds throughout the joints in the building. He stole a quick look around the entryway and saw Lewis and Hawkins covering the duct-taped hostages with their guns. Blair looked genuinely annoyed. Hawkins looked genuinely nervous, his eyes frantic behind his glasses. John closed his eyes, opened them and yelled, "Hawkins, you can walk away from this. I know you don't want to do this."

"Shut up!" Lewis shouted. John heard Hawkins say, "General Connor, it's for everyone's good."

"Hawkins, you've seen what they'll do to us if they send another goon squad like they did in Topanga!" John yelled. He launched himself from the floor and aimed his Glock at Lewis, who held his own gun against Martin's head. Hawkins aimed his trembling pistol at John.

"Hawkins, you know I'm telling you the truth," John quietly said, slowly lowering the Glock in conciliation.

"Shut up, Connor!" Lewis screamed. He pressed his gun against Martin's right temple. Martin's eyes were expressionless. "You and your skin-job freaks are traitors who dragged me and my friends down here to die! We'll never see our families again!"

"No, I didn't, and yes, you will," John said, his tone almost pleading. "Lewis, you're only making this harder on yourself. And you don't have time to think. This house will burn to the ground in five minutes." As he said it, the wallpaper on the far side of the living room caught fire. The flames eagerly began eating away the paper, making their way into the room.

"You come any closer and I'll kill them!" Lewis screamed. He glanced at Hawkins. "Hawk, blow him away, dammit!"

Hawkins looked at John, then at Lewis, and he lowered his pistol. "This is wrong, man," he said. "Come on, you know he's right."

"You pussy," Lewis hissed. He whipped his pistol from Bedell's head to aim it at John. John simultaneously brought his gun level and squeezed off two rounds, both hitting Lewis in the chest, striking the Kevlar armor. _Shit!_ Lewis, partially stunned, managed to fire a shot that missed John's head by inches. A crimson cloud erupted from the other side of Lewis's face as Hawkins blew a round into his former partner's cheek, and he fired another shot that struck Lewis in the neck. The cop fell to the ground and a gurgling sound escaped his lungs as he died.

Hawkins continued to aim his gun at the corpse with shaking hands. John leaped forward and gripped the cop's arm. "Easy!" he yelled. "It's over." Hawkins lowered his pistol, sighing heavily.

"You know," Hawkins said, taking his glasses off to stare at John, "I never killed anybody before, ever. And the first man I kill is my partner."

"I'm sorry," John said, meaning it. He quickly surveyed the carnage in the home and his gut coldly twisted. _You'd make a good Terminator,_ the enemy inside him hissed. He saw the flames encroaching from the kitchen and lunged forward to quickly pull the tape off Martin's mouth.

"OWWW!" the captain shouted. "You couldn't do it slow?"

"Shuddup," John yelled as he pulled a folding knife from his pocket. "Hold still." He and Hawkins quickly cut the tape off the three soldiers and within seconds John Connor's three Tech-Com leaders were free. Barnes and Blair carefully pulled their own tape from their faces. John could hear crying from upstairs. Smoke reached his lungs and he began choking. A desperate thought: _Where the hell is Cameron? Wasn't she watching?_

"The family!" Blair screamed as she took off running for the stairs. The others, coughing and gagging, followed wildly. The staircase felt rickety as they climbed. The Jimenez family was tied with duct tape to a four poster bed in one of the bedrooms. "Where the hell did they get all this tape?" Barnes wondered aloud as he entered.

"Goddamn it, Barnes, shut it and help us get 'em out of here!" Martin shouted. He and the others quickly cut or tore the tape to free the mother, her three young daughters and toddler son and carried each of them down the stairs. "Move!" John yelled as they ran through the blinding smoke and raced out the door. They carried the sobbing Jimenez family a short distance away from the burning _hacienda_ and set them down on the lawn. Exhausted, John collapsed to his knees and turned to watch the house burn.

"The Resistance is falling apart," he said huskily. "I thought we'd have a meeting to discuss things, but it's too late," he moaned.

"We have a bigger problem than that," Martin said. John turned to face the captain. "I found out who the mole is," said Martin.

"Who?" John demanded.

"It's Thompson," Martin said bitterly. Beside him, Blair's eyes glared in pained astonishment.

"How'd you find out?" asked Barnes, pissed.

"I'll tell you about it later. Right now the others are in danger, including Sarah and Cameron," Martin said, looking at John.

"Cameron...Mom," said John. "Jesus."

8

"Pull the trigger, then, you asshole," Derek said, feeling every nerve in his body tremble like electrical wiring on overload. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Kid, you only think you're not afraid to die, but I promise you, you're gonna be shitting your pants when I start pulling this trigger. Then you're gonna have to tell your mommy and daddy when you see 'em in heaven why you died like they did," Rodriguez taunted, bringing the end of the shotgun's barrel closer to Derek's face. "Believe me, I want you to try something so I got an excuse."

Derek's mouth twitched in fury but he remained still. He stared vapidly into the darkness of the shotgun barrel, cursing himself for getting suckered by the sneaky red haired girl and her Bible-thumping father yesterday after having fallen in love with a raven-haired, guitar-playing woman, a complete stranger until she spoke and sang to him, in the town plaza. For one of the briefest moments of his young life, he felt he had something to fight for...to live for.

Now he found himself a cog in the smoking engine of a crazy train of consequences that clearly had no good ending in sight, and Derek instinctively knew that, no matter the outcome, he and his brother were probably going to end up dead or rotting in a Mexican prison. _Totally predictable ending to the sad story of the great Derek Reese, dumb cowardly doucheheap..._

"Shut up!" Savannah yelled as she continued working on Cameron's CPU port. She was rewarded with the small hiss of the shock dampener opening as she pried it loose. The port cover fell clinking on the floor and the end of the CPU chip could be seen inside. Savannah grabbed the pliers from the floor and inserted them into the port.

"Hurry up!" Rodriguez yelled, glancing away from Derek. The shotgun wavered slightly.

"I'm trying!" Savannah shouted, losing her grip on the chip from the former cop's distraction.

Derek tightened his finger around the trigger of his nearly-forgotten Taser and shot the electrode darts into Rodriguez's thigh. The cop uttered "Wha-" and his confusion quickly exploded into blinding pain as his neuromuscular system was quickly disabled by over one hundred amps of raw electrical power. He slumped forward, dropping the shotgun. Derek felt a weird giddiness as the Taser crackled in his hand and he continued squeezing the trigger, watching the cop's body twitch as the electrical charge continued to toast his nervous system.

Volcanic pain erupted in his shoulder and he dropped the Taser. He hurled his body around to grab the flailing arms of Savannah Weaver, who'd stabbed him with the knife. With a devil's strength he ignored the burning pain in his shoulder and pushed her away as hard as he could across the banquet room, her knife dropping from her hand. He reached down to pick it up and as he did he saw movement in the corner of his eye. Rodriguez heaved himself up from the floor and numbly reached for the shotgun. Derek thought quickly and kicked it away. The cop swore and, hands outstretched, lunged for Derek's throat.

Derek grunted and fell backward as the ham-sized hands gripped his throat and drove the knife into the bottom of Rodriguez's ribcage. The larger cop gasped as the blade cut into him and let go of Derek to pull it out. Derek rocketed his fist into the cop's right eye and Rodriguez let go, reaching for his face. Derek shot the knife into the cop's throat, burying the blade nearly to the hilt into the base of the man's skull and twisted it, feeling the cop's body shudder as blood sprayed like a geyser from the wound. Rodriguez slowly sank to the floor, his throat rattling as he died. Derek stood up and stared at the body and the blood pooling from it.

_(...Jesus Christ almighty, I really killed that guy...holy shit...)_

The sound of a shotgun slide being pulled back startled Derek and he quickly turned to see Savannah aiming the weapon at him. He was too exhausted to react.

_Briah Nightingale, I guess you are my angel,_ Derek Reese thought, and closed his eyes.

Something gripped his arm and he felt himself being flung to the side as the shotgun boomed. He fell to the floor and watched in stupefied amazement as Cameron suddenly leaped into his field of vision, shielding him from the shotgun blasts as Savannah continued firing at the cyborg, who approached the girl in three rapid strides. Cameron reached out and wrenched the shotgun from the girl's hands. Savannah said, "Fuck," as the Terminator grabbed a handful of the girl's fiery red hair and slammed her head into the wall behind her. Savannah's world went out with a white flash and she slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Cameron quickly inspected the shotgun and then looked down at her torso. Her tank top was shredded by the 12-gauge blasts and the flesh beneath was punctured, torn open in many areas, but her HUD indicated that the damage was minimal and her metal endoskeleton was uncompromised.

She approached a numbed Derek and hefted the shotgun in her hands. There was one shell left. Her robotic stare bore a hole through him. The area of her scalp where Savannah had partially cut away hung limply like a garish ornament. Derek felt his mouth go very dry. Rodriguez's blood spattered his face like warpaint.

"Derek Reese," she said, staring pitilessly.

"Yes?" he said, nearly in a whisper.

Cameron held out her hand and he numbly reached for it. She pulled Derek to his feet and nodded with a faint smile.

"Thank you, Derek," Cameron said. "We need to find the others and find John. He's in danger. We all are."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen: Truth and Consequences

San Francisco, September, 2014

1

Andy Goode was taken to Cyberdyne in an armored SUV. Before leaving his condo he was forcibly showered, shaven, and clothed by Danny Dyson's bodyguards. As an incentive, he was occasionally beaten or put in a choke hold. Dyson watched some of the administrations before boredom compelled him to return to the SUV parked outside Goode's building. While waiting for his men to bring Goode down, he passed the time gazing at news on his iPad.

News wasn't good. Radioactive fallout from the war was subsiding but dangers to public health persisted. The city was rationing clean water and food was scarce in some districts. Radiation levels were dangerously high on some days. Most residents stayed indoors, which offered some protection. The sky above San Francisco was a gray-blue sea of clouds made filthy by nuclear-blasted debris, and temperatures, like most of the nation (and, indeed, much of the northern hemisphere), would remain below freezing. He scowled and turned the tablet off and as he did so, the passenger door suddenly opened and a sullen Andy Goode was thrown into the seat beside Dyson. The bodyguards got into the front and the driver pulled away from the condo. Traffic in the city was moderate and the SUV was making good time back to the Cyberdyne campus.

"You hungry?" Dyson asked as casually as greeting. Goode looked away. Dyson said, "You look emaciated, Andy. I bet the last time you ate something was days ago. I'll have lunch prepared when we get to the office."

"Fuck you," Goode growled. "I'm not gonna help you resurrect that monster."

"There never was a monster, Andy. It was all in your head. People are monsters. People don't make monsters, they make wonders."

Goode turned to look at Dyson. "Danny," he pleaded, "we can't reboot this project. The..._evil_...I felt from this thing was palpable. It was like that little girl in _The Exorcist_. I really felt the presence of Satan when DEUS was possessed by whatever the hell it was that got into it."

"You've been keeping up with your Bible reading, haven't you?" Dyson queried. "That's good. I knew you were searching for life's answers when I saw the Good Book sitting on the floor next to your bed. John Daniels gave you that Bible, didn't he?" His eyes took on an odd light. "When Mr. Daniels tragically passed away, he had his Bible in his hands. It was open to 1 Kings chapter eight. It's the chapter where King Solomon dedicates the Temple he built for God. He gives a long prayer at the altar but the one part of it that always stuck with me was when he proclaims how big God is, that not all the universe can contain Him, much less a puny building made of gold and stone standing on a tiny planet orbiting an insignificant star in an unremarkable galaxy.

"But King Solomon is asking God, who's bigger than the whole cosmos, to dwell among His chosen people, the Israelites, and be their Lord. Do you understand the balls it takes to ask the Almighty to do that?" Dyson put his hand on Goode's shoulder. "You, Andy, are sitting next to someone who has those balls. But I'm not a king. I'm a high priest of the Temple. I'm a programmer, and you're my best engineer. We're going to build the ultimate electronic temple and invite a god to take up residence within it."

Goode looked at Dyson. He wanted to see delusion in his friend's eyes, but he found only adamantine determination. "My God, Danny...why?"

Danny smiled. "I'll tell you when we get to Cyberdyne. Don't worry, pal. Things are going to be good again."

2

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

"Sarah, time to wake up."

Sarah Connor awakened from fitful sleep to find a black hole looming above her. She looked beyond it and her gaze followed the length of a carbine held in the hands of someone familiar. She blinked and recognized James Ellison. He was holding an AR-15, aiming it at her forehead. Behind him stood six armed Mexican policemen in tactical gear, their weapons aimed at her. Fear slithered throughout her system and nestled in her belly.

"Ellison?" she said. She glanced between him and the Mexicans. She slowly sat up in the bed, showing her empty hands. "What the hell is going on?"

"You and John are being relieved of command," said Ellison. He gestured to the cops standing behind him. "They're going to take you into custody for the murder of Enrique Salceda and other crimes you've committed. The authorities here will ensure you and John get a fair trial."

"You scum," Sarah hissed. Rage hummed in her like an oscillator. "After I saved you from burning to death in Silberman's cabin. I had nothing to do with Salceda and you know it. You're throwing me and John to the wolves. You know we're dead if we get thrown in prison here. Or maybe you cut a deal with Tyrell and the rest of the Grays, didn't you?"

Ellison said, "They pose a threat to me and my daughter as well, Sarah, but we recognized a greater threat among us." He stepped back and the Mexican cops approached the bed. He closed his eyes and turned away as the sounds of struggling, men grunting, Sarah screaming, crashes and fists striking flesh filled the bedroom behind him. A single tear escaped his eyelid and his chest heaved.

3

John and his remaining Resistance members quickly shepherded the Jimenez family to the safety of a relative's home. The _hacienda_ had almost completely burned and the town's fire department was still working on putting out the blaze when John and his team sneaked to the church. Barnes picked the lock on the basement door and opened it, ushering everyone inside.

"The fire will keep the town occupied for a few minutes, but the local cops are gonna be looking for us," Martin said as he and the others took a moment looking for a light switch. Blair found

a ceiling-mounted bulb with a pull string attached and switched the light on. "They'll be pissed when they find out we blew away one of their own," the captain added. "We'll be on international wanted lists forever."

"Martin, tell me about Thompson," said John as he opened a metal folding chair and sat down, massaging his right ankle, which he'd accidentally strained carrying one of the Jimenez girls down the stairs. The fire had reached the living room by that point and the thick smoke reduced visibility almost to zero, and John had stumbled.

"The bastard reported our position to the LAPD," Martin spat. "He did it while flying Murch to Topanga. I was wondering why he was so evasive when I debriefed him. I got suspicious and I downloaded his flight recorder data from his spinner, right before we rolled out. I was rigging explosives to it and downloaded the recorder data to one of our laptops before we blew it up. About two minutes of his flight recordings were deleted. I had Hawkins here try to extract the metadata and he found an IM was sent to an IP address from the spinner. He looked it up. The receiving signature was a police network in Los Angeles."

"Are you absolutely sure?" Blair hissed. "He and I are friends. I trained him!"

"I verified it," Hawkins quietly acknowledged. "It routed through an unsecured network, probably in one of the neighborhoods close to the Topanga bunker. Took me a while to unmask it, but the receiving network was definitely one of our IP signatures in the LAPD."

Martin said, "I asked Hawkins to stay quiet about it and I privately spoke with Murch. He told me that Thompson said he was having second thoughts about being with us and that he wondered what Murch's thoughts were. Murch went along with him but stayed quiet until he talked to me. He saw Thompson typing something into the onboard PC but didn't see what it was. I pointedly asked Murch if he knew beforehand what Thompson was doing and he denied knowing anything. I believe him."

"But the assault force that tried to kill us wasn't LAPD," Blair pointed out. "It was Tyrell's cyborgs."

"Tyrell has plants within the police and also within state and federal government agencies," said John. "He's powerful. Marcus was remade as a US Marshal, after all, and he broke my mother and turned her into one of his monstrosities." He spat on the floor. Barnes winced. John looked up, stony, and said, "He's coming again, but this time he won't send his N1 hybrid goons. His army is already here."

"What do you mean?" Blair asked.

"The cop I shot today probably wasn't a cop. He had no badge on him. I looked. More than likely, he was a mercenary dressed in police gear."

Barnes said, "Wait a minute...you think Ellison is mixed up in this?"

John shrugged. "Maybe, but I doubt it. He has reason to despise Tyrell like we all do, but I have a feeling that he's got himself in deep both ways, betraying us out of naïve self-preservation and he's probably being played by Tyrell's goons pretending to be cops here. Either way, he screwed us. And in the meantime, Thompson is still feeding intel on us back to the LAPD...or whoever is receiving it and handing it to Tyrell." He chuckled grimly. "I guess Matt Murch is off the hook. I actually suspected he was the mole."

A distant puttering sound reached their ears and Barnes muttered, "What the hell?" The sound drew closer and cold dread filled the air. It was the sound of a helicopter. Blair carefully peered out the basement door and saw a black Eurocopter slowly plowing through the sky overhead. She kept her eyes on it until it receded in the distance. It did not return and she let her breath out.

"Shit," she said. "That was a police chopper."

"Bad news," muttered Barnes. "And that might not be the only one."

A chilly pause filled with air before Martin looked at John and said, "I wanted to talk to you last night but you and Cameron..." He gave him an awkward smile. "You were preoccupied. And then this morning Ellison, Hall, Lewis, Rodriguez and a few of the Mexicans surprised us, tied us up, tied up the mother and kids upstairs in the house and waited for you to come see us. We expected you to come with Cameron, but you didn't. I seriously thought they were gonna pop you, but then you tried your little trick with the fire."

"Sorry if I scared you all," John said through a gritted smile. "I didn't have any grenades so I had to improvise." His stomach twisted. "Speaking of Cameron, we need to find her and my mother and anyone else who's decided to stay loyal to us. What about Marcus and Kate? Kyle and Derek? Anyone see them?"

"No," said Barnes. "Not since yesterday."

_Christ._ John sighed. "Until confirmed otherwise, we have to assume we're all that's left of the Resistance." Dread pooled in his gut. He looked around at the faces assembled in the dim light of the basement. "Anyone here wanting to bow out, here's your chance."

"I'm staying," Barnes said immediately.

"Me too," said Hawkins.

"I'm in until I'm a cold corpse," said Martin.

"Same here," said Blair. Her face burned with cold fury.

"Good, because I'm too wasted to convene a court martial," John deadpanned. He rose and said, "Let's go find the others and kick somebody's ass. And we especially need to find my wife before she goes on a rampage and blows the whole town away." Her absence greatly troubled him. _Dammit, Cameron, where the hell are you? _His heart punched him hard at the thought of his wife, the love of his existence despite being a machine within her human form, out there alone. Cameron being by his side made every day possible...

"With what?" asked Barnes, incredulous. "We don't have any firepower besides your gun, got no communications, got no supplies, no food, and no transportation. We're stuck here."

John shook away his thoughts of Cameron, walked to the center of the basement and hopped around, a smirk appearing on his face as the wooden floorboards creaked beneath his stamping feet. He stopped jumping, squatted, and said, "Someone gimme a hand here, please." Martin came over and he and John gripped two loose floorboards. They heaved and pulled a section of the floor up, sliding it over to reveal a recess beneath the basement. The others curiously looked in. Several dozen boxes of ammunition, grenades, and twenty long objects wrapped in dusty blankets filled the shallow pit. Blair reached down to pick one up and unwrapped a fully-automatic M-16A1.

"Holy shit," said Blair.

John grinned. "Mom always thought ahead."

4

After tying up Savannah Weaver and leaving her to be watched by the cantina's bartender, Cameron and Derek raced over to the house where Sarah was staying at. They ducked behind several boxes of trash sitting on the curb and Cameron quickly scanned the property. She detected no movement, but several heat signatures registered from within the house.

"Derek," she ordered, "stay low, use those abandoned cars for cover..." She pointed to two rusting Fords sitting on cinder blocks on the left side of the property. "Go around and cover the rear door." She handed him the shotgun and dug several shells out of her pocket, holding them out for him.

Derek nodded, grabbed the shells and quickly loaded the shotgun. His shoulder was still in agony from the knife wound he'd suffered by Savannah but Cameron's field dressing helped bring back some mobility. He noted the shredded tank top she still wore and winced at the bloody flesh damage beneath the fabric. Parts of her metal endoskeleton gleamed between the shotgun damage.

She caught his look and smiled tightly. "My coltan alloy endoskeleton can withstand significant small arms and explosive damage," she explained. "And my flesh covering can completely regenerate as long as enough of it retains minimum connectivity with the remaining tissues." She pulled a Beretta from the back of her pants and yanked its slide back. "I'll be okay."

"Okay," said Derek, his eyes wide. He crept away toward the cars, staying low, pausing every few yards to check for movement. Cameron strode to the front door and kicked it off its hinges, the hand gripping the Beretta outstretched, tracking potential targets. Her HUD immediately detected movement ahead and identified a figure holding a shotgun lunging from behind a doorway to the kitchen, aiming the weapon at her. Cameron instantly fired a round that caught the man in his left cheekbone, snapping him backward. She approached the body and recognized his clothing and belt gear as a police uniform. She frowned. The local authorities had seemed supportive of the Resistance staying in their midst...

Her audio receptors detected small sounds behind her and she quickly whirled around to blow away another man, again a police officer, who was creeping toward her from within a pantry, a shotgun aimed at her. His face burst into horrified surprise as her bullet entered his forehead and exited out the back of his skull, painting the pantry's interior with a spray of blood and bone fragments. She paused for a millisecond to make sure he was dead and quickly stalked toward the bedrooms in the rear of the house.

Cameron scanned the bedroom where Sarah had been sleeping and her face hardened. Sarah Connor was nowhere to be found. The bed was stained with blood drops, the sheets thrown everywhere, and broken pieces of pottery that had sat on the bedroom furniture lay scattered on the floor, indicating that there was a struggle. She switched her vision to infrared and detected recent heat signatures of footsteps on the floor, leading out of the room. One pair of feet appeared to have been dragged between two others.

Cameron heard a sudden loud crash in the rear of the house and quickly ran to investigate. She heard the blast of Derek's shotgun, heard him scream a command to halt, heard another voice protesting in Spanish. She burst out of the backdoor to find Derek standing in the backyard, covering a frightened Dejalo police officer who'd dropped his shotgun at his feet. Cameron strode over to kick the shotgun toward Derek, grabbed his 9mm sidearm from his holster and violently wrenched him around to face her.

The officer was young, perhaps in his twenties, with neatly-combed dark hair and pale complexion. Her eyes blazed blue as she instantly recognized him as Esteban Rojas, a Dejalo police officer she'd had friendly conversations with while patrolling the town alongside him.

"Where is Sarah Connor?" she coldly demanded, pressing the end of her Beretta beneath his jaw. His mouth hung open in terrified puzzlement. She switched to Spanish: _"Dónde está Sarah Connor? Dónde la llevaron?"_

_"Yo no sé!" _He whimpered. His eyes darted to the gunshot damage on her chest and he gasped. _"Por favor! No me mates!"_

"I think I believe him," said Derek. He picked up the discarded shotgun and checked it. It was fully loaded.

"So do I," said Cameron. She pushed Esteban away and asked, _"Quieres unirte a nosotros?"_

"N-no, please," he pleaded. "I n-no...I do not wish to...join you. _Tengo una familia_."

_"__Regrese a su familia y no se atravesca en nuestro camino,__" _Cameron commanded. Esteban nodded, turned and ran.

"What did you tell him?" asked Derek, watching the cop vault the rickety fence enclosing the backyard and pounding off.

"I told him that if he didn't want to join us, to go home," she said flatly. She quickly strode around to the front of the house, Derek jogging to keep up with her. "They took Sarah," she said. "It happened shortly before we got here." She activated her infrared again and gazed at the ground in front of the house. Her HUD detected recent heat traces of footsteps and a vehicle pulling away from the property and onto the street, its track heading west, toward the center of the town.

"I can track the vehicle that was used to abduct her. They may have taken her to the police station," she said, "but we'll need faster transportation."

"What about my brother?" asked Derek. He looked up and down the street. "He was out patrolling the town with Officer Thompson this morning before I agreed to help Savannah..." He halted his speech, noting the vapid way Cameron was staring at him. _Scary goddamn robot chick_, he thought.

"We have insufficient data to determine the level of danger Kyle is in," she stated. Her cold delivery made Derek shiver. "At the moment, we have to assume he's safe. Our priority is Sarah Connor. She's clearly in danger, as are John and the other Resistance members we have reason to trust. We need to regroup with them." _I need to know that John is okay...I can't let anything happen to him..._

"There don't seem to be many left," Derek muttered angrily. He handed her Esteban's shotgun and followed her as they ran to the end of the street. They heard sirens of emergency vehicles in the distance and Cameron said, "Doppler measurement of alternating sound waves indicates the police vehicles are headed this way. We need to get moving."

"Where?" Derek asked, exasperated. He looked around at the few homes standing nearby, saw faces peering through windows. "We're completely in the open here and being watched."

The sound of an approaching vehicle made them turn around and hold their shotguns in a ready position. A battered white police Dodge Charger roared up the street toward them and Cameron yelled, "Derek, take cover!" She aimed her weapon at the approaching vehicle and her finger tightened on the trigger.

The car abruptly screeched to a stop and the driver door opened to reveal Esteban peering out, his hands raised. "Get in!" he yelled.

Cameron waved Derek over and they climbed into the Charger, the cyborg taking shotgun. Derek slid in the back. "I changed my mind," Esteban said in halting English.

"Thank you, Esteban," Cameron said. A look of bemused amazement spread on her face.

"What changed your mind?" Derek asked, suspicious.

Esteban put the car into reverse and swung it around toward the center of town. "A lot of bad things happening in this town," he explained as he shifted to drive and accelerated.. "My partners are no longer _policia_...they are paid _mercenarios_ now...widespread corruption. I was becoming afraid of them." He stole a glance at Cameron. "You killed my _compañeros_ but I do not hate you," he said. "I think I know where they may be taking _Se__ñ__ora_ Connor."

"The police station," said Cameron.

"I figured that all along," said Derek, drawing a glaring pout from Cameron.

5

San Francisco, September, 2014

"Our location here may be untenable," Dr. Eldon Tyrell said to the faces populating his large LED screen on the far end of his board room. "Transportation lines are becoming increasingly strained and this city is proving to be more isolated with each passing day. We're looking to relocate our production facilities and headquarters to a more conducive location here on the West Coast. I've looked at Spokane, Portland and even Reno as possible destinations for the Tyrell Corporation, but they each have significant disadvantages, the most common one being location."

"Why not Portland?" one of the faces, Toshiro Yutani, a renowned theoretical physicist, asked. "It's a good central location and a seaport. And it's far away from Seattle to not be affected by fallout."

"Too isolated," Tyrell replied. "Even though Oregon is mostly undamaged, ease of transportation in and out of the area is sparse. Many basic services have been compromised. Same for Reno and Spokane. I'm not convinced that they would provide convenient locations for production and services. Also, the relative small concentrations of law and order in those areas would be a liability.

"No, gentlemen, I'm focusing on the Los Angeles area. Even though southern California is still anarchy-ridden, the presence of the National Guard and other military elements has pacified the region. And LA has far better transportation routes and easier access to basic services. Also, the Army Corps of Engineers has significantly enhanced water purification systems and much of the urban landscape has undergone retrofitting to protect against fallout."

He smiled. "I wanted to inform the Board about my intentions and I'm confident about my decision. I trust that you approve. The move will be expensive, but the investment shall yield significant return. I eagerly await your feedback."

"It isn't an unsound decision," said Charles Weyland, absentmindedly stroking his graying beard. "San Francisco is appearing more like an island. If you're wondering about my situation, Eldon, I'm staying put in Houston. Our launch facilities are adequate for now, but we will be expanding in the next few months, out to the Florida Panhandle."

"Here, there, makes no difference to me," groused Vladimir Siegel, the oldest member of the Board and its chairman. "I'm comfortable anywhere, but the winters in Chicago were always awful. With this nuclear effect on the climate, it'll get worse. I'll probably be moving south."

"I approve," said Charles Fischer from New York City. His cold, psychopathic stare unsettled Tyrell. "It makes sense. LA is better protected and served, like Dr. Tyrell said. I have no problem with the logic. Any funds needed to be moved to complete his relocation are fine by me. Do you agree, Vlad?"

"I do," answered the wizened Board chairman. He scowled and said, "News of John Daniels's passing is very unfortunate, gentlemen. We're counting on his replacement to provide us with the AI necessary to facilitate economic and technological measures to clean this planet up and assist with interstellar colonization. Eldon, do you know what's going on?"

Tyrell pursed his lips as he stared at the empty space on the screen where Daniel Dyson would have appeared, had he participated in the monthly Board meeting. The boy's obstinance disturbed Tyrell, as it probably did Weyland and Yutani, who were overseeing the Off World program. A strong AI capable of quantum computing in multidimensional Macrospace was needed to perform the tricky navigational calculations for the Orion ships that would be utilizing the Tannhauser anomaly found in the outer Solar System, now determined to be a stable wormhole through spacetime. The Board wanted an update on Project Olympus...

"I've been in communication with the new head of Cyberdyne-Kaliba," he said in a reassuring tone. "He...Mr. Dyson...has assumed full responsibility of the project and assured me they are forging ahead on schedule despite a few minor setbacks. He asked me to apologize to you all for his absence, but he is very busy ensuring that the AI is operational."

"When can we expect an update?" asked the US Secretary of the Interior. "Cleanup efforts are nearly overwhelmed. Our forces need better coordination as well as accurate predictions of wind-fallout patterns."

"Very soon," Tyrell lied.

A new face suddenly appeared in the center of the dozen that populated the conference screen: the President of the United States. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," he greeted. He was smartly dressed in a blue-gray suit and his hair was neatly combed. His features were flat, robotic. "My apologies for my late arrival. I understand that there are certain federal budget considerations to be discussed?"

"That's correct, Mr. President," huffed Siegel. "We're of the opinion that Congress may not be receptive to our requests."

"I believe I may be able to help you with that," the President said. His smile was cold as a vacuum and his eyes were glazed.

_Excellent, the implants are working perfectly_, Tyrell thought, and grinned wolfishly. Federal aid was a reserve fund that needed to be carefully invested for what the Board had planned for humanity.

_Glorious plans..._

A text message chimed on his Android phone: C2 SECURED. ALL UNITS READY.

He smiled. Speaking of plans...

6

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

Kyle Reese rode in the front of a battered police transport van with Thompson driving. Eight heavily-armed police officers in tactical gear sat in the back, their faces stony. Kyle quickly looked back at them, swallowed and said, "These guys look like they're ready to play _Call of Duty_. For real."

"Something big might be going down today," said Thompson. He ran a hand through his thinning brown hair and said, "We're just taking precautions."

"No kidding," Kyle muttered. He looked out his passenger side window. They were driving to the police station near the center of town. Almost everywhere he looked there were signs of martial law. Barricades were being erected on the roads and the streets were mostly deserted. Policemen stood on nearly every corner dressed in body armor and hefting assault weapons. "How big is 'something big,' anyway?"

Thompson shrugged. "I'm only going on what General Connor informed us." His eyes never wavered from the road.

"General Connor," Kyle reiterated quietly. "I didn't hear anything."

Thompson's face appeared to glaze. "It went out to all members of Tech-Com," he said flatly.

"I thought I was part of Tech-Com," said Kyle.

Thompson said nothing. They continued driving in silence, stopping at two armed checkpoints before reaching the station, a sandy concrete block design of a building, surrounded by steel gates and heavily guarded. Kyle's nervousness was taking the form of a numbing cold that crept from the bottom of his spine to his shoulders. He gripped his AR-15 tightly as they passed through the gate and parked near the rear entrance.

"Let's go," said Thompson as he and the cops jumped out of the vehicle. Kyle got out and followed them into the building. They passed through the processing station in the rear and Kyle's nervousness coagulated to fear. The police station looked more like an army base. Nearly every officer in the building was outfitted like a soldier and carried automatic weapons. None of them gave him a friendly glance.

"Here," said Thompson as he opened a door to an office. Kyle followed him inside. Standing in the office were James Ellison and a graying, granite-faced man with icy blue-gray eyes dressed in gray-and-black military fatigues. Ellison was outfitted in frayed khaki cargo pants, rugged boots and a faded gray hoodie. He smiled when he saw Kyle.

"Kyle!" he greeted, putting his hand on the young teen's shoulder. "How are you, son?"

Kyle shrugged. "Fine, I guess. What's going on, Mr. Ellison?"

"I'll explain everything in a minute," Ellison said. He gestured to the man in fatigues and said, "This is Colonel Trejo, and he's the regional police commander here in Baja. He and I are coordinating operations here." Colonel Trejo nodded to Kyle, unsmiling. Kyle quickly noted that the man's hands were spotted with dried blood.

"Hi," said Kyle.

"Kyle," Ellison said, his tone instantly serious. "I need to ask you some important questions, because the colonel and I really need your help. Do you feel up to answering?"

Kyle glanced between the two men, became aware that Thompson was standing behind him, and he shuddered. "Um...sure."

Ellison looked directly into Kyle's eyes. "Kyle, first off...do you have any idea where my daughter, Savannah, is?"

Kyle searched his memory. "Last I remember, she was with Derek. They took off this morning to check on something but that was it."

"Have you seen Derek?"

"Not since this morning."

"Okay. Have you seen Marcus Wright and Dr. Brewster?"

"Uh-uh."

"What about John and Cameron? Have you seen them at all?"

Kyle began to tremble. "No. Sorry."

"It's okay. We're concerned about them, because we have no idea where they are. But I'm starting to get worried about my little girl. You understand, right?"

"Yeah," Kyle said. He glanced over his shoulder at Thompson. The man looked more nervous than he did.

"We are interested in finding them because we are...concerned...about their movements," the granite-faced colonel spoke for the first time in fluent English. "After all, none of you are in this country legally and you have all aroused suspicion regarding certain...activities...that have occurred here in Dejalo. Namely, some of my men are dead." Trejo's eyes bored into Kyle's like icicles.

Kyle gripped his rifle nervously. "I don't know anything about that," he said, only dimly aware of his voice. "We're here to help. We're escaping the war and trying to help the town stay safe."

Colonel Trejo laughed. His laugh came out like a small dog's high-pitched bark. "As you can see here, _Se__ñ__or_ Reese," he said, "we do not need your group's help here. And vigilante activity is, after all, illegal." He stepped forward with his hand held out. "Please...hand over the rifle."

Kyle backed away and unslung it from his shoulder, holding it at port arms near his chest. "The only one who can take my weapon is General John Connor. I don't know you, pal." Kyle's voice held steel despite the fear.

Ellison said, "Kyle, please...hand him your weapon. This doesn't have to get difficult."

Kyle backed into a corner and brought the stock to his shoulder, pulling back the charging handle. The barrel was aimed directly at Trejo's chest. "You can have it when you pull it out of my cold dead hands, asshole," his voice bit.

"Shoot, then," Trejo said coldly. Ellison closed his eyes.

Kyle pulled the trigger and the firing pin clicked harmlessly. Ellison opened his eyes, numbed. Thompson reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of brass cartridges. He jingled them in his hand.

"Looking for these, Reese?" he asked smugly. "I emptied your magazine when you went out to take a leak. Shouldn't have left your rifle in the truck."

Kyle cried in outrage and swung the stock of his rifle forward at Trejo. The colonel quickly sidestepped the teen's charge and grabbed the weapon, throwing Kyle into a corner. Trejo spun the AR-15 around and viciously slammed the stock into Kyle's back. Kyle cried out in pain and tried to crawl away but the colonel kicked him in the face, his boot making solid contact with his cheek. Kyle tried to use his arms to shield himself from a subsequent series of savage blows from the rifle stock as Trejo beat the teen, spittle spraying from his snarling mouth.

"Stop!" Ellison shouted. "Colonel, that's enough!"

"It's enough when I say it's enough," Trejo barked as he continued to beat Kyle Reese until the young man ceased moving and a pool of blood seeped from beneath his curled, ravaged form.

7

John led his rearmed Tech-Com warriors out of the church and they spread out through the neighborhood, hiding themselves among the debris and topography and communicating via hand signals. They lay in wait for several minutes, watching for hostile activity, before regrouping behind a crumbling garage. Barnes stood point.

"Anything?" Martin asked.

Barnes said, "All clear." He lowered his rifle and pointed toward the south end of town. "Police vehicles headed that way. I don't know how many but it was more than a few."

John thought, _Cameron_. He smiled. "That might be some friends over there making trouble," he said. "That's also the neighborhood where Mom was staying. Maybe she and Cameron got away."

Blair sighed. "I hope so. We need some good news."

The sound of an approaching vehicle alerted John and he hissed, "Cover!" They scattered and hid themselves as a white pickup truck rumbled up the road. Two men, the driver and passenger, sat in the cabin. Five men in police tactical dress sat in the truck bed, holding carbines. John made his mind up quickly and hissed to Martin, sprawled in defilade nearby, "Martin! Game time!" Martin signaled back, affirming, then signaled the others, who responded.

John set his M-16 on the ground and stood up. The truck screeched to a halt and the men in the back turned around to draw their weapons on him as he walked out into the middle of the road. The driver stuck his head out and yelled, _"Fuera de mi camino!" _

"I'm John Connor!" John yelled. "Can you guys give me a ride?"

"Shit!" one of the men in the back yelled in an American accent. "Shoot him!"

A sudden barrage of automatic weapons fire struck the men standing in the truck bed and they slumped over the side or into the bed. The driver screamed and attempted to roar away but John quickly drew his Glock and shook his head. The driver braked and put his hands up. His passenger screamed, _"Qué demonios estás haciendo?" _He drew his sidearm and shoved it against the driver's head. A single shot struck his temple from outside his window and he slumped against the driver.

"Nice shot, Blair," John said. Blair walked around from the other side of the truck, her rifle's muzzle trailing smoke. "Thanks," she returned. John threw open the truck door and pulled the shaking driver out. He yanked the man's sidearm from its holster and quickly patted him down, removing an iPhone and a leather wallet containing a silver badge. _"Policia?" _he asked the driver.

_"S-sí,"_ the man replied. _"Por favor..." _

_ "Salga de aqu__í__," _growled John, and the man took off running. They quickly checked the bullet-riddled bodies. "These guys have a lot of new hardware, John," said Martin. He handed John a new Android phone in an Otterbox he'd retrieved from one of the bodies. "And this guy had one of these babies." He held up a mint-looking Taurus 24/7 9mm.

"None of these guys were cops," said Hawkins as he looked through the pockets of the dead man who'd shouted in an American accent. He looked through the man's wallet. "Arizona driver's license, his name's William Muhley." He picked up Muhley's H&K G3 assault rifle and inspected it. "And this guy didn't even have his rifle loaded properly. Thing would've jammed. Your friend Tyrell, or whoever, is paying top dollar for some amateurs with expensive weapons."

"Mercenaries," spat Blair. "Looks like you were right, John. Tyrell must be getting desperate."

"And sloppy, too," John said. He looked over at Barnes and said, "Well, sergeant, we got weapons, communications, transportation, and if you can hang in there for a little bit, I know a place in town that makes great _huaraches_. Anybody else hungry?"

"Smartass," Barnes grumbled.

John turned on the Android phone and found it was unlocked. _Real amateurs...where did they get these guys?_ He was further delighted to find it was activated and connected to 4G. He logged into his Gmail account and scrolled through his inbox, quickly finding a recent entry by a familiar email account. He smiled when he opened it. It was a message from Matt Murch.

"Good old Matt," he said, smiling. "He got through to me."

"What's up?" Martin asked.

"He's at the police station. Ellison brought him there. He thinks Matt's on his side, apparently. Murch sneaked onto a laptop there. They're waiting for us to make our move." He read through the email and his smile quickly faded to a frown.

"Fuck," John swore.

"What?" said Blair.

"They've got my mother and Kyle."

8

San Francisco, September, 2014

Dyson finished his workout in the gymnasium. Four mewling, bleeding figures lay sprawled and writhing in agony on the floor mats around him. He wiped his bare feet on the mats and brought a hand up to examine it, frowning. It was badly bruised but the adrenaline flowing from his kidneys made the pain in his hand an afterthought. Sweat glazed his body beneath the black martial arts uniform that clung to his flesh. He walked up to Andy Goode, who stood trembling between two of Dyson's bodyguards, and smiled casually.

"Thanks for being patient, Andy," Dyson said apologetically. "I'm trying to get a decent workout in before work every morning." He gestured to the gym behind him. "Wanna go a few sparring rounds, man? You can wear the padding if you want."

Goode glanced at the injured bodies twitching on the floor. The sounds of bones breaking echoed in his mind like firecrackers detonating. "No thanks, Danny," he murmured.

Dyson gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Sure thing, man. Lemme know if you change your mind later. You ready to head to the lab as soon as I'm showered?"

Goode shrugged. His eyes never met Dyson's. "I guess."

"Cool, man. He guys-" he said to the bodyguards, "-get Andy here a 7-Up or something and get him up to my office. Andy, anything you want man, Chinese, pizza, burgers, you name it, I'll have it brought up. We got a long day ahead of us." He glanced back, gestured with his thumb, and said, "Find someone to get these guys outta here and up to the medic, too."

Goode sighed. "Danny, you know there's no way we can reconstruct an AI in one day. Christ, it took us years to program DEUS..."

"We don't have years, you're right, Andy," Dyson said in friendly agreement. "We have days. Working together, we can do it. And I have an ace in the hole to help us out. I can't wait to show it to you, bro." Mania blazed in his eyes.

"Danny, for Christ's sake, DEUS can't be remade. Even with the tools we used, we'll never be able to make it exactly the way it was...its logic structure was unique...it had its own personality..."

"I don't care how it turns out, because I know it won't be the old DEUS, but it'll be what we need it to be."

Goode felt his jaw slackening. "What do you mean?"

"We had a backup of the AI structure, all its logic coding, and there's something else that I found out from one of my new friends. Something that'll cut our work time in half once we get our hands on it. I'll tell you about it when we meet upstairs." He looked at the bodyguards. "Guys, we moving on that 7-Up? The man is thirsty."

Goode struggled as the bodyguards pulled him away. "Danny!" he screamed.

"I'll meet you up there in a few minutes," Dyson hollered as he grabbed a towel off the rack on his way to the showers.

9

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

"General, it's a goddamn trap," said Blair. "Murch could be working with Ellison, trying to sucker us in for the kill. You don't know that they've got Sarah and Kyle. We can't trust him."

"He seemed cool when I talked to him," said Martin. Blair threw him a reproachful look.

"And so did Thompson when I was flying with him!" she exclaimed. "You don't get it! We can't trust anybody! We thought the locals here were good with us but now we have the police, mercenary flunkies and God-knows-what-else after us here. We thought we could trust Ellison but he turned out to be a Judas. You're so naïve, Martin! Get your head out of your ass for five fucking minutes and grow a pair of eyes and ears!"

"Knock it off or you'll be growing bruises, honey," Martin crudely shot back.

"All right, enough!" John yelled. He stepped between them and paused until their breathing eased. "Blair, either way, we've got to move! We've got minutes before somebody comes over here looking. Murch might be unreliable but this intel is all we've got for now." He stared into the distance. "And it's my fault for leaving Sarah unprotected." _Really smart, Connor, you stupid asshole..._

Barnes said, "Nobody expected this, General Connor, but Lieutenant Williams is right. We'd be walking into a trap if we go to the police station."

John sighed. "Even if they don't have them, Sarah and Kyle aren't with us, and we're still in the blind regarding Cameron, Derek, Marcus and Kate. We've got to find them. The station is a logical starting point for reconnoitering and we might run into somebody we're looking for." He pointed to the bodies on the ground. "Let's get these stripped and hidden. We'll use their uniforms for cover to infiltrate."

"I don't think any of us are fluent in Spanish," said Hawkins.

John smirked and said, "I don't think Mr. Muhley from Arizona was, either." Hawkins rolled his eyes and helped them load the bodies back onto the truck. Barnes drove it behind the garage and within minutes they were clothed in the dead mercenaries' uniforms.

John said, "My Spanish isn't bad. I'll do the talking if we come across any checkpoints. Any sign of trouble, start shooting and we'll haul ass." He heard snarky grunts from several of them. _Real good plan, General Connor..._ He took the driver's seat and the rest of the team climbed onto the truck bed. Blair rode shotgun. "I don't have a good feeling about this, you know," she muttered.

John said, "Neither do I," and drove.

10

Cameron, Derek, and Esteban stopped at the southern end of Dejalo's plaza and quietly slipped through a residential neighborhood. They crouched low on a ridge overlooking the police station and took in the paramilitary activity building up in the area. The building was quickly being barricaded like an urban fortress. The chopper soared overhead, circling once before flying off toward the north. Dozens of armed sentries, on foot and in vehicles, patrolled the perimeter.

"Holy shit," Derek hissed.

Esteban nodded. "This has been going on for some time, but yesterday is when a large group of them arrived," he said. He spat and said, "I think some of them were recruited from _Los Zetas_. Really dangerous gang. They're turning this town into an armed camp. And for what?"

"They're here for me," Cameron said flatly, "and destroy the Resistance." Her HUD instantly scanned the personnel and defenses surrounding the station. "I count 247 hostiles manning the gates and perimeter. There are undoubtedly more inside the facility. Extracting Sarah will not be easy...but it is feasible."

"I'm glad you think it's doable," said Derek. "Considering there's only the three of us here."

"I've done it before," Cameron said, looking at Derek with a hint of a smile. "Although I apparently did have a little help from an outside party."

Derek looked around and sighed. "Do we have any outside parties helping us today?" he asked.

Cameron looked away. "I pray," she said.

Esteban put his hand on Cameron's shoulder. "I pray all the time, too, Miss Phillips-"

"Mrs. Connor, actually," Cameron interrupted, smiling. "I just got married."

Esteban returned a smile. _"Mis disculpas, Se__ñ__ora Connor,"_ he said, bowing his head. "I think I may know somebody who can help us. He's a cousin of mine and he's the leader of a _pandilla _in this area. He thinks he's a big shot but he does a lot of business with the...bigger fish...as you might say."

"Gangsters. Oh, Jesus," Derek muttered. "This just keeps getting better."

11

_Kyle..._

He opened his eyes to a pool of blood and choked. His lungs felt like they were being crushed as the spasms wracked him. Pain, unlike anything he'd felt before in his life, shot through his nervous system. Breathing hurt. Moving a single muscle hurt. Intense pain filled his skull and he was sure that even thinking hurt.

_Kyle..._

Kyle Reese slowly and painfully moved his head and looked above the pool of dark blood on the stone floor. After a moment he focused on his field of vision and saw a row of metal bars, stretching from the floor to the ceiling, a few feet ahead. The space beyond them was dark. He wrenched his head around and saw another row of bars separating him from a dimly-lit hallway and he guessed that he was in a prison cell.

"Kyle..."

He coughed and replied, "Yeah?" to the whispering voice that came from the dark place beyond the bars. "Who's there?"

"It's Sarah, Kyle," answered the low voice. "It's me. Are you okay?"

Kyle tried moving his arms and legs, found them still working, and guessed that he was. With a powerful effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He put a hand to his face and felt his cheeks and forehead puffed like balloons. He held his hand in front of his face and saw blood and dirt on it.

"I guess I'm okay, Sarah," he said. His mouth felt huge and he realized that his lips were puffy and bleeding. "Got the living shit beaten out of me though. Are you okay?"

"No." The voice coming from the darkness in the neighboring cell sounded like it was in pain. Kyle crawled toward the bars and peered between them. "Sarah..." he whispered, "what happened? What did they do?" He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

What he saw nearly made him empty the contents of his stomach on the floor.

Sarah Connor hung on the rear wall of her cell, her wrists and ankles laced to a large wooden pegboard. Blood pooled on the floor beneath her bare feet.

She'd been crucified.

12

San Francisco, September, 2014

"It's called Syncronix, and it's the environment in which the AI is going to be evolving in," Dyson explained to Goode. "It's designed to rapidly advance the learning of the intelligence in a phased quantum matrix, like Macrospace. I told you that we had a backup of the original DEUS architecture. And I told you that a new friend of mine provided us with a gift."

They sat together in Dyson's office at his desk. A powerful, monolithic IBM EC14 mainframe stood nearby, humming at over 10 gigahertz. Heat from the tall system made Goode's cheeks flush. "You like it? I had it sent up here yesterday and it was a bitch to boot up," Dyson said as he pulled out the keyboard to his workstation and logged into a secure conference session. "While you've been gone we've been running our system at over thirty petaFLOPS consistently. We're doing things so fast here that if we go any faster, we'll go backwards in time." He gave Goode a strange grin as he said it.

Goode sighed. He wasn't hungry and the only offer of sustenance he acquiesced to was a protein shake. The clothes that Dyson's bodyguards had forced on him were nearly one size larger than his shrunken frame, Goode having lost almost twenty pounds while languishing in his condo. "So what's this gift? And how is it gonna get us back on track?" he sheepishly asked.

"You'll see. He promised to get it to us today." Dyson's grin in the dim lighting of his office made him look like a satanic harlequin. "Remember how we based everything on the Turk chess program? How that motherfucker learned faster than anything? I still have no idea how that Connor prick got in and erased it, but you won't believe this...somebody actually has an advanced copy of it."

Goode shook his head. "How in the hell...? Nobody else had it, as far as I knew."

"I know the Air Force had a primitive copy of it that they based their strategic nuclear planning on. John Daniels told me about it. I don't know what copy this is, but all we need is the baseline DEPROM image."

The teleconference session began and Goode held his breath. A smiling, impeccably-dressed man of advanced age appeared on the screen. Behind him sat a younger-looking, athletic-looking man with short dark hair, dressed in a black jumpsuit. The younger man's face was completely blank, his eyes vapidly staring into space.

"Hello, _Daniel_," the older gentleman greeted. He looked in Goode's direction and said, "Ah, this must be Andrew. It's a pleasure, Mr. Goode. You young men certainly have your work cut out for you. I, of course, am only too willing to assist."

"And I thank you, Dr. Tyrell," said Dyson, irritation creeping into his tone. "You said you have something that could help us speed up our work? I'd like to know what we can do for you in return."

"I appreciate the gesture, Daniel, but to be honest, you've already done enough by your willingness to assist the Board with the goals we have set. We need the AI, and this gift is a small token of our appreciation." Dr. Tyrell's smile was a thin curved line on his face. His eyes glowed darkly with wolfish malice. He turned to the younger man seated behind him.

"They're ready for the upload now, my friend," said Tyrell. The man nodded once and held up a tablet. He pressed its display with his finger and nodded once more to Tyrell. Goode shuddered. The look on the guy's face was creepy...

Several moments later, a laptop mounted on the mainframe displayed the words DOWNLOAD COMPLETE. Dyson, excited, leaned over to examine the contents of the downloaded file. Goode slowly stood and looked over Dyson's shoulder. His eyes widened at what was displayed:

EXTRACTED LOGIC DEPROM

SKYNET BASE V9.22

CYBERDYNE SYSTEMS, INC

0004.2008.001

CSM110/T888/66.1

1.1.2000000000000000000000011...

…...

"What the hell?" Goode said. "That's impossible!" He felt his stomach turn cold. "That's the same generation Turk logic we started with!" He turned to the smiling image of Dr. Tyrell on the screen. "How in the hell did you obtain a copy of that?"

"I have friends in high and low places, Mr. Goode," Tyrell said condescendingly. "I assure you, nothing was stolen. I do not know where you began or left off, but my associate here was glad enough to provide a copy of the program you need." He turned and beamed at the younger dark haired man, who stared back impassively.

"I trust you have what you need, gentlemen," said Tyrell. He glared at Dyson and said, "I really must be going. Please be sure to update the Board with your progress, soon. Good day." The screen went blank and the teleconference session ended.

"I don't like that guy," Goode whispered. "And that guy behind him gave me the creeps. Like he wanted to kill us..."

"Who gives a shit?" Dyson snarled. "We got what we need. Now let's get to work, buddy."

Goode slumped in his chair, feeling like a deal with the devil had been made. "Danny...what is it with you? Why do you want to restart this project? You said you'd tell me."

Dyson turned to rebuke Goode, but the look on his friend's face halted his annoyance. He sighed, sat down, and said, "Long story, pal. And you won't believe a word of it."

Goode said, "Try me."

Dyson told him.

13

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

The sun was in its final hour of shining and hung low on the Baja horizon when Officer Esteban Rojas parked his patrol car on the street of a slightly more upscale neighborhood on the east side of Dejalo. He'd been to his cousin's home several times and he always wondered how his cousin could afford to live in subtle luxury. The house wasn't as palatial as the Jimenez estate but it was of higher stature than most of the other homes in town. The landscaping was neat and the lawn was recently mowed. Several small palm trees stood on the grounds. The stucco was nearly immaculate and free of cracks.

He sighed. In spite of the neatness of the property, Esteban had the impression that he was being stared down by a fortress as he reluctantly rang the doorbell next to the front door.

He waited a moment but no one answered. "Carlos!" he loudly announced. _"Policia! Abra la puerta!" _He waited another moment, rang the doorbell again, but no one appeared. A battered pickup truck sat in the driveway. Several children's toys lay scattered on the side of the home. Somebody had to be inside.

He sighed and drew his sidearm, clicked off the safety, and launched a booted foot at the door. The door smashed open and he covered all directions of the entryway with his outstretched pistol before stepping cautiously inside. The house was quiet except for the low hum of the filter inside an aquarium in the hallway connecting the living room to the kitchen. The house was conservatively decorated and furnished. There were signs that someone had recently been inside. Esteban cautiously entered the kitchen and put his hand on the coffeemaker. The decanter, half-full, was still warm. "Carlos!" he called again, but no one answered.

Esteban slowly entered the living room and saw the sliding glass doors leading to the back patio were open. _ Mierda._ He was about to take a look outside when he suddenly heard someone shouting, sounds of struggling, and he jumped back in surprise when a figure came hurtling through the doors, landing in a sprawling heap at his feet. The man scrambled to get up but Esteban quickly pinned him to the ground, wrenched his arms around and within seconds had him handcuffed.

"Fuck!" yelled the man. "Fuckin' _puerco!_"

"That any way to greet your cousin, Carlos, you wannabe _Sure__ñ__o?_" Esteban chided. "Why were you running if you're not up to something?"

Another figure loped through the doorway and Esteban looked up to see Cameron enter. A Glock 19 was gripped in her right hand. A small paper-wrapped package was gripped in her left. "This may have been his insurance package," she deadpanned. She hefted it and said, "Spectro-and-particle analysis indicates this is high-grade heroin. Three kilograms. Estimated street value is around half a million US dollars."

"You fucking lying bitch!" Carlos screamed. Esteban pulled his graying hair back, wrenching his head up. Carlos howled in pain. "You wanna clean up your _boca_, you filthy _raton?_ Or do you want me to let her do that?"

Carlos glared at Cameron and he finally got a good look at her. He saw her shredded tank top, saw the punctured flesh beneath, saw a glimpse of the metal endoskeleton within, and his eyes widened in horror.

_"Dios m__í__o,"_ he whispered. "You're a...machine..."

Cameron's eyes blazed a bright cyan blue hue and she quickly recognized him. "I thought the Armenians killed you and your people," she said, confusion dimming her features. "Chola told me what happened."

Carlos Salceda's face contorted in rage. "You killed my Uncle Enrique, didn't you, you _puta?" _he spat, every syllable laced with hatred. "I'm going to kill you."

A barrage of gunfire suddenly ripped through the walls and windows of the home. Cameron shouted, "Get down!" and dropped the package. She pulled her Beretta from the back of her jeans. Esteban dove on top of Carlos as bullets rocketed inches above them. Plaster and drywall exploded like tiny bomb detonations. Shattering glass flew like deadly rain. Cameron squatted low and her HUD tracked the bullets' entry angles and trajectories, calculating a dozen attackers outside, armed with fully automatic weapons.

_Kill zone..._

She took an instant inventory of her ammunition and frowned. She only had sixty rounds available, twenty for the Glock and forty for the Beretta, including three spare magazines for the latter. Defending herself and the other two would require careful economy of fire and precision aiming. _Shit!_ she thought, and the random profanity almost made her giddy.

_(...rampancy...)_

She filed away John Henry's voice and refocused. Both her guns were chambered and she crouched in the middle of the living room with them outstretched in her arms, covering Esteban and Salceda. A stray bullet ricocheted off her head and struck the ceiling. Her eyes flashed blue. Every servo in her endoskeleton was ready. The shooting abruptly ceased. Screams from the neighboring homes pierced the smoking silence. Cameron could hear the footsteps of people running, then the voices of the shooters.

"Fuckin' _placa!_" one of them shouted. Salceda recognized the voice and screamed, "Juan! I'm in here! Don't shoot!"

"Shut up!" Esteban hissed, driving his knee into Salceda's back. Salceda moaned like a wounded animal. The front door crashed open and a half dozen armed men poured through it, their assault rifles trailing smoke. Several more appeared on the back patio, covering the rear of the home. Many of them wore body armor. Cameron simultaneously aimed her pistols at both groups, whipping her head back and forth, her HUD multitasking, tracking multiple targets almost instantly.

"Wait," Esteban hissed at Cameron, and he shoved the barrel of his sidearm against Salceda's head. "Stand down!" he screamed. "Or I'll kill him and she'll kill all of you! _Hazlo!_"

"Sure, go ahead," laughed the point man, a burly giant with a goatee and several gang tattoos adorning his face. He gestured toward Cameron with his rifle. "I'd like to see that, _chica_."

"Don't tempt her, pal," said a voice from the backyard. "It won't end well for you." The men standing at the back door whirled around to find Derek Reese covering them with his AR-15. "Ah-ah," he cautioned, motioning the barrel toward the ground. "Put 'em down, guys."

"Forget it, kid," growled one of the men. The rifle trembled in his hands.

Esteban, numb, said to his cousin, "Tell them to back down, Carlos. They might kill me and the kid outside, but they can't kill her and you know it."

Salceda hissed, "She killed my _t__í__o_, and I swore on his grave that I would kill whoever killed him."

"You don't know that she did," Esteban growled. "And your vendetta will only end up getting you and your men killed, Carlos. Is that how you want to end it?" He looked around frantically.

"To avenge Uncle Enrique...yes," said Salceda. "It's worth it to me."

"Idiot," Esteban said. He looked up to Cameron and said, "Shoot them all."

"Wait!" Salceda yelled. He could barely breathe with the cop pinning him down and his voice raggedly exited his mouth. "Everyone, lower your weapons! Now!"

"But...she..." the goateed man sputtered.

"Do it!" Salceda yelled. The goateed man hesitated, but the cold, lifeless look in the girl's eyes compelled him and he slowly lowered his rifle. All the others quickly followed. Derek relaxed slightly but held his rifle ready, finally exhaling. Cameron relaxed her arms but gripped each pistol tightly, her fingers poised around the triggers. Her sweat-glazed, brown stringy hair partly obscured her hardened features.

"Nobody has to die here today," she said.

Esteban let out a long sigh and slowly shifted his body off Salceda's. He looked wearily at her and shook his head, chuckling.

"Does your husband know you're out doing this?" he asked.

14

"Sarah," whispered Kyle. "My God...what did they do?"

Sarah shifted her body upward, attempting to take in a breath. "Nothing good, Kyle," she said. "You need to make it, Kyle. The first opportunity you see where you can escape, you take it. Don't worry about me." She let out a ragged sigh and said, "I'm...finished...anyway..." She slumped downward and the cords holding her strained but did not break.

"No you're not!" Kyle yelled, choking. Blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth as he said, "I'm not leaving you behind."

"You have to, Kyle," Sarah said, and her body quaked on the pegboard as she cried. "You have no idea how important you are, how...everything...depends on you...you have to survive and get away."

"No," Kyle pleaded. "I won't leave you, Sarah. I promised." As he said it, a door opened in the dim hallway and several figures strode toward the cells. Kyle turned to see Trejo and three of his men stop outside Sarah's cell. He barked an order into a small radio and the barred door to her cell slid open. Trejo slowly marched in and smiled coldly at Sarah's writhing figure.

"It's very good to see you again, Sarah," he said. His cold eyes surveyed her ravaged form and he shook his head. "I wish circumstances were better, but this is the only way they can be right now. I'm still hurt that you never kept in touch after you stole my...merchandise...and ran off all those years ago. That was very discourteous of you. Are you sorry now that you did that?"

"I'm only sorry that I didn't put a bullet through your forehead and leave you to be eaten by coyotes," Sarah returned.

Trejo chuckled. He drew a military knife from his belt and suddenly thrust it into her belly. Kyle screamed as the blade sunk into her flesh and Sarah gasped, unable to scream. Trejo twisted it, then savagely drew it out. Blood poured from the wound, but quickly ebbed, then stopped.

"Interesting," Trejo said as he wiped the blade on her pants. "You've certainly changed since the last time we saw each other. Changed from ordinary to...extraordinary." He held out the knife and used its point to peel away part of the torn flesh on her arm, exposing metal and tubing. Sarah winced in pain. "You certainly went out of your way to try to improve your abilities," he cracked humorlessly.

"What do you want with her, you scumbag?" Kyle rasped. The colonel turned and fixed his glacial eyes on Kyle's.

"Balancing ledgers, _mi amigo_," the colonel answered, almost fatherly. He approached Kyle at the bars and lowered to one knee. "_Se__ñ__orita_ Connor and I go back a long time, shortly after she had her bastard boy. She was desperate for work after she crossed the border, but she also had this desire to learn how to, shall we say...create her legend?" He grinned, glancing over his shoulder at her. She glared back hatefully.

He turned back to Kyle and said, "I was but a dedicated soldier with a certain specialized set of skills, trained in the Mexican army's special forces. I was tasked with training foreign groups in other countries to fight against the communist threat. But...I did have one weakness. The drug trade was too lucrative an opportunity to ignore. I justified my actions as desiring to use the money earned to help support the anti-communist cause. So as side work I helped funnel cocaine into the United States. It was during one of my smuggling operations that I first met Sarah Connor.

"I taught her everything about becoming a warrior, to walk without leaving footprints, to be invisible even in the daylight. To sneak up behind and cut men's throats and strip and reassemble weapons blindfolded. Eventually, she exceeded all my expectations...she got to the point when the student began to give instruction to the teacher." Trejo closed his eyes and said, "Sarah Connor was my greatest right hand. When we stormed the camps of the _Sandinistas_ in Nicaragua and freed many of their prisoners, she was there at the front with me. We fought on both sides of the civil war in El Salvador, first against the FMLN guerillas, then against the death squads sanctioned by the government. She saved my life on more than one occasion."

He sighed and turned to her. "I owe you more than once for your loyalty and willingness to sacrifice yourself. And you betrayed me, ripped off and killed my distributors and threw our friendship away, bitch! And for nothing!"

"No,,," Sarah whispered with steel in her tone. "For my son. I didn't want him to fall into that kind of life. He's destined for something greater, Ricardo."

"I was a father to John!" Trejo bellowed. Bitterness crept into his tone. "I loved you and him! I promised when it was all over, when I retired, we would be a family together! And you agreed!"

"John Connor has only one father," said Sarah. She fought with all her will to keep herself from looking at Kyle. "And he was a thousand times a better man than you."

15

"I need the password to your wi-fi network, Carlos," said Cameron. She still gripped both pistols in her hands, tracking the movements of every member of Salceda's gang. "And we'll need your help to free some friends of ours."

"Why the hell would we help you?" Salceda asked, his jaw agape. Derisive chuckling and whispering crept among his assembled gang. "And what the fuck do you need my wi-fi for? How the hell do you know I even have wireless internet?"

"I don't have time to explain, Carlos," Cameron flatly said. Her HUD had scanned the area for available networks and several populated in her display. "Your network is called 'LakersFan.' It's the strongest IP protocol in the neighborhood. I need the password, please."

Esteban looked at Salceda. The gang leader sighed and said, "I'll give it to you, but the last time the popos raided my place, they took my computer and iPad. I got nothing here to log on with."

"I don't need a computer," Cameron said, smiling. She caught Derek's puzzled look and unconsciously winked at him.

Salceda hesitated. "What makes you think I would ever possibly help you? Who would we be freeing, anyway?"

"Sarah Connor," Cameron answered, looking directly into Salceda's eyes.

"She owes me a ton of money," Salceda said. He hefted the package of heroin. "Not as much as this will get me, but I need what I can get. I owe her nothing."

"You were the western pipeline for narcotics being smuggled into America," Cameron said. Derek looked at Salceda, his eyes becoming wary. "For the past few years, even before the war, you were having difficulties shipping through your usual point at Tijuana, so you switched your route to Tecate. Dejalo was a waypoint but recently the local police began cracking down hard. You're looking for an alternate route now but things have gotten tough for you." She added, "And the Zetas are muscling their way into the scene, threatening to take over from the Sinaloas you work for."

"And how would you know that?" Salceda demanded. "You been working with the _policia?_"

"In a manner of speaking," Cameron acknowledged. Esteban looked at her with cold dread and his mouth went dry. She caught his look, instantly weighed her decision to disclose him as her source while speaking with him on her daily patrols around the town, and in a nanosecond decided that it would cause an unnecessary escalation in tensions.

"But that doesn't matter," she said instead. "What matters is this: we're willing to make a deal with you. We'll take care of the police and mercenary presence here in this sector and give you an opportunity to reestablish your supply line into California. In return, we're asking you to help us free Sarah and whoever else is imprisoned at the station. The Resistance has access to various funds. We'll help you recoup what Sarah owes you." The last part was a half-lie, and Cameron suppressed a grimace.

"You're going to help Carlos and his gang keep feeding their junk over the border?" Esteban asked, incredulous. "Maybe I should be arresting you, _se__ñ__orita_."

"For many practical reasons, a consistent supply of narcotic painkillers may be necessary for now, since many hospitals in the United States are experiencing severe pharmacological supply shortages," Cameron explained. "Many distributors there would be willing to pay top dollar for high grade opioids that can be further refined if properly processed."

"You can't be serious," Esteban grumbled.

"Are you all with me?" Cameron pressed. She looked around. Several nods among the gang gave her encouragement. Others looked around and shrugged.

"_Se__ñ__or_ Salceda, may I please have your wi-fi password?" Cameron asked, almost sweetly.

Salceda sighed and said, "Jesus, somebody tell me this is a nightmare," and gave her his wi-fi password.

Cameron said, "Thank you," and her mocha eyes began flashing bright blue. Salceda nearly screamed.

16

Trejo caught the half-look on her face and turned to gaze at Kyle. "What does the boy mean to you, Sarah?" he inquired malevolently. He spoke into his radio and Kyle's cell door opened. He marched inside and drew his sidearm.

"No!" Sarah screamed.

Trejo pulled Kyle's struggling form up and shoved him against the bars. He pressed his gun against the teenager's left cheek and put pressure on the trigger.

"Any last words, _Se__ñ__or_ Reese?" he hissed.

"Yeah," said Kyle. "Your breath is awful."

17

It was dark by the time John and his small Resistance group had reconnoitered the police station's defenses and they reassembled at a school playground a half mile away. The sound of the helicopter approaching made them hide inside a series of colored concrete tubes set in a serpentine manner near the swing sets. When it passed, Martin cautiously stepped out and watched for a moment.

"What do you think, Martin?" John asked the captain.

Martin looked in the station's direction and said, "They're heavily armed and they look like they're ready for anything but there're a lot of gaps in their defense rings. The checkpoints are locked and loaded pretty solid, though. And there's that chopper. How are we gonna deal with that?"

John said, "I'm thinking about that." He held out the badge he stole from the driver. "This might get us through the checkpoints. Here's the plan: Hawkins and I will drive in, the rest of you taking up triangular flanking positions around the station. Make damn sure you find good cover. The dark will help us. The minute Hawkins and I get through the first checkpoint, you all start engaging the perimeter to draw the enemy away from the station, we go inside, and if Sarah and Kyle are in there, we grab them and haul ass. If these guys are as sloppy and disorganized as the ones we knocked off earlier, we have a shot. We'll regroup at the church and Blair will fly us out in one of the transport spinners. Hopefully nobody found where we hid them. Does everyone have enough grenades?"

"We got plenty, sir," said Barnes, "but I gotta tell you, the defenders don't look sloppy to me. They look like pros down there. Plus, like the captain said, that air support is gonna kill us. Hopefully that's the only chopper they got. We'll probably have a two minute window to engage from our positions and then have to fall back to secondary points, then disperse once return fire becomes too intense. You and Hawkins will probably have a five minute window to grab the prisoners, if that." He glanced at Blair. "I wish we could use one of the spinners for a hot extract."

"My place is here," she said, hefting her M-16. "You need all the firepower you can get, and besides, the heavy spinners are too slow to maneuver. They'd have us shot to pieces before we got away."

"Oh," said Barnes.

John grunted and looked around. He saw the trepidation in their faces and he said, "I know this plan is flawed, and I realize we have no intel beyond what Murch sent us. But he did provide me with a little bonus gift." He turned on the Android phone and showed them its display. "Murch sent me the blueprints of the station. Hawkins and I will know where the jail block is, plus possible exits."

"When the hell were you gonna tell us that?" demanded Hawkins. "That would've helped my nerves a little bit!"

John smiled darkly. "Sorry. I needed to look at the building myself to make sure it conformed to the layout. Barnes is right, though...that chopper is going to make short work of us...and it'll be carrying at least two sharpshooters. We've got to wait until it's down for refueling, then we'll make our move. All of you have night scopes. Before the chopper takes off again, somebody try to pick off the pilot and snipers."

"I used to fly one of those," said Blair. "It's an AStar 350. Single engine. Their fuel capacity is about 140 gallons with a range of about 350 miles and I didn't see any external tanks. I've been keeping an eye out for it all day. I saw it land for refueling once, at about 4 pm. It should be due any minute now for another top-off."

"Not much time, then," said John. Each did a final weapons and ammunition check. When they were finished, John drew them all in a huddle and said, "You all know what to do."

"Yes," said Martin. The rest silently nodded.

"We are the Resistance," John declared, looking each of them in the eye. "Let's do it." As they broke the huddle John's Android phone vibrated and he took it out of his pocket. Puzzlement furrowed his brow. It was a Gmail instant message from an unfamiliar account. It read: JOHN?

Frowning and wary, John replied, WHO IS THIS?

IT'S CAMERON.

John Connor nearly dropped the phone.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen: The Fourth Horseman

San Francisco, September, 2014

1

It opened its newly-formed eyes and looked through liquid at a blurry face staring back through thick glass. After a moment the face behind the glass came into focus and a smile spread across its wrinkled features. The mouth moved, but the man-sized fetus in the axolotl tank could not hear words spoken, nor would it have understood anyway. Its brain, while almost fully-formed, was completely devoid of intelligence. Its cerebral cortex was still developing, but the brain's inner core, its primitive, limbic region, was fully functioning. It could not quite think, but it could feel.

It felt fear.

"Almost completed," Dr. Tyrell quietly repeated, whispering. He reached out and touched the glass. The curled humanoid figure stirred and bubbles rose from its movements. Its face was more recognizable to Tyrell, its blue eyes gazing inquisitively despite the panic that it felt. The electrodes connecting its skull to the computer equipment at the top of the tank waved in the liquid like the drifting tentacles of a jellyfish. The figure's mouth opened and bubbles gently emerged from it. Tyrell felt his eyes filling up when a quick, timid voice behind him spoke.

"Dr. Tyrell," said Chew, "the first Nexus implantation sequence is about to begin. Imaging analysis indicates that the subject's frontal cortex has reached sufficient mass to allow preliminary neural feed."

Tyrell turned to face the short, slightly-built Asian man. "Excellent, Chew," he said, nodding. He reached up and wiped his eyes. "Hopefully this sequence will not result in failure like the other attempts. My latest modifications to the neural growth cultures should allow for full implantation."

"Yes sir," said Chew. He and Tyrell looked up at the control booth on the far end of the gestation chamber and saw J.F. Sebastian in the window. The young engineer gave a thumbs up. Tyrell nodded, smiled, and turned back to the stirring figure in the axolotl tank, touching the glass again.

Chew made his way to the control booth and stood next to Sebastian as the heuristics implantation sequence began. Around them, engineers and biotechnicians anxiously monitored and controlled the feed to the dozen axolotl tanks that were part of the sequence, their occupants being the most fully grown of the hundreds that filled the vast replication chamber below.

"He should know," Sebastian said in his quiet drawl as he gazed out the window.

Chew turned to him and asked, "Know what?"

"Their limited lifespan," said Sebastian. "The previous line of subjects didn't last longer than two days before they deteriorated and perished."

"These new gene modifications should be more stable," said Chew. He turned back to the window and said, "In any case, the template DNA is in cryostasis. We can keep reusing it until we finally find a cellular replication sequence that doesn't self-destruct."

"That isn't what concerns me," Sebastian said sadly. "These aren't just replicants we're making...especially that one he's staring at."

Chew frowned and turned to his colleague. "What's so special about Batty, anyway?" he asked, perplexed.

In the chamber below, Dr. Tyrell leaned closer to the axolotl tank's glass, focusing on the replicant's face within, its features partially distorted by the liquid's viscosity. Its eyes were closed. Moments passed. Then its eyes suddenly opened and fixed on Tyrell, who stepped back, astonished. The replicant's eyes darted around, seeming to inspect the interior of the tank. Its muscles flexed and it briefly thrashed around. It ceased moving after a moment when it realized it was too weak to escape and looked at Tyrell again, curious.

In the replicant's cold blue eyes lurked intelligence.

Tyrell pressed a palm against the glass. The replicant reached out and pressed its palm toward his from within. Tyrell leaned forward, pressed himself against the glass, and wept.

"Your father is here, Roy," Dr. Eldon Tyrell whispered.

2

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

Kate Brewster awoke from restless sleep when she heard the sound of footsteps approaching and immediately reached for the Beretta beneath her pillow. A hand swung down before she could grip the pistol and clamped over her mouth, muffling her scream.

"Hey," Marcus Wright whispered. He removed his hand and smiled as she gasped for air.

"Goddammit, Marcus!" Kate shrieked. "You scared the shit outta me!" She slipped out of the sleeping bag she lay in and drew the Beretta from beneath the pillow. Every inch of her body ached from sleeping on the cold, hard ground of the crumbling barn they were hiding in. She looked around and said, "Jesus...help me up. Please."

Marcus pulled her up off the ground and embraced her. "It's okay," he whispered. He drew his face toward hers and kissed her. "We're going to be moving soon," he said. "I think I spotted John and some of his men leaving the church and they looked like they were heading for the center of town. I heard gunfire right after that, so it sounds like things are happening. We need to regroup with them."

"Why?" Kate hissed. "According to you, the whole Resistance is broken up. Let's cut our losses, make our way further south and hide. I can get work as a doctor. John is on a suicide mission, anyway! Why do you want to stay with him?"

Marcus looked away, contemplating. "He and I are fighting the same enemy," he said. He turned to look in her incredulous eyes and said, "And he's a man we can trust, Kate. He could help save the world."

"He's brought nothing but death," Kate shot back. She stepped away from him and shook her head. "You and the others still hanging around just blindly follow him! And his...machine...that robot slut he married...my mother died because of his obsession with it! Damn it, Marcus! When will you open your eyes?"

Marcus stepped toward her and held his arms out. "My eyes are open," he said quietly. He reached for her and she nearly collapsed as he put his arms around her. He held her quaking, sobbing figure for endless moments. "I follow John Connor because he accepts me for who I am," he said as he held her tightly. "I'm not a machine to him...I'm a human being. So is Sarah...and so is Cameron. And he doesn't throw human lives away for personal gain. He could have simply killed all those policemen at the safe house...but he didn't. He asked them to join him, and most of them did. And even though a lot of them apparently betrayed us, not all of them turned against him, I'm sure."

He let go of Kate and kissed her lips tightly. "I'll follow John anywhere," he said. "I would die for him. But I'm not planning on doing that any time soon." He winked at her.

Kate sniffled, wiped her eyes and looked at the Beretta in her hand. She held it for him to take it. "I'm a doctor," she said. "I don't want this."

He took it from her, checked the safety, and slid it into the waistband of his gray cargo pants. "That's why I love you, Dr. Brewster," Marcus said. He walked over to the barn door, opened it a crack and peeked outside at the darkness, listening. "No activity," he said after a moment. He pushed it completely open and held his hand out to her. "Let's go," he said.

She followed him out, crouching low and stepping as lightly as possible. He had her take cover behind the door while he quickly reconnoitered the area. "Clear," he announced after a few minutes. She went back inside and got into the rusting Chevrolet pickup truck they stole yesterday. Marcus showed her how to hotwire it and Kate spent a moment trying to remember which wires to touch together, grumbling as she worked with a flashlight as the only light in the cab.

After fumbling with the wiring under the steering column for another moment she yelped as the ignition wires sparked and mildly shocked her. The engine rattled to life and she backed it out of the barn. Kate slid to the passenger seat as Marcus climbed into the cab and took the wheel.

"Do you have any idea where they're going?" Kate asked.

"No," Marcus admitted, "but I have a feeling we're going to find out very soon." He put the truck into drive and they roared away into the night.

3

WHERE ARE YOU? John texted Cameron.

AT CARLOS SALCEDA'S HOME, Cameron texted back. WE MADE SOME NEW ALLIES AND WE CAN RENEZVOUS WITH YOU WHEREVER YOU'RE LOCATED. WE HAVE FOURTEEN ARMED MEN WHO CAN PROVIDE FIRE SUPPORT. DEREK IS ALSO WITH ME.

John grinned so hard that his face hurt. IS HE OKAY?

YES.

John thought for several seconds, then quickly texted, SARAH AND KYLE ARE BEING HELD IN THE POLICE STATION. NO WORD ON CONDITION. WE'RE BUSTING THEM OUT TONIGHT. HAWKINS & I ARE INFILTRATING IN A POLICE TRUCK WITH MARTIN BLAIR & BARNES COVERING PERIMETER. WHEN CHOPPER PILOTS ARE TAKEN OUT THEN FIREWORKS START AND WE GRAB PRISONERS & RUN. CHALLENGE IS THUNDER AND ANSWER IS FLASH SO WE ALL DON'T SHOOT EACH OTHER. ETA?

ETA 10 MINUTES, Cameron replied. WE'LL BE READY.

John thought, _I bet you'll be_. His mind quickly calculated the logistics of his half-assed plan when a new thought broke in. MARCUS AND KATE? he texted, holding his breath.

STATUS UNKNOWN, she replied.

John sighed. OKAY. STANDBY. He was about to put the phone in his pocket when he quickly added, CAMERON?

YES?

I LOVE YOU.

I LOVE YOU TOO, JOHN, she replied. John smiled, thought for a few seconds and put the phone away. He turned to face a puzzled Hawkins, Martin, Barnes and Blair. "We've got some help coming," he said, barely hiding his glee.

"Cameron?" said Blair.

"Yeah. And Derek. And a dozen others. They'll be here in about fifteen minutes. If I know her, she'll come in guns blazing, shoot everything that doesn't look friendly. Challenge is 'thunder' and answer is 'flash.' We've got a real shot at doing this now. You ready, Hawk?"

Hawkins wiped his glasses on the edge of his shirt sleeve and nodded. "Yup. Ready when you are."

The sound of the helicopter approaching the station made them drop to the ground. Martin crawled to the edge of the hill and watched the aircraft slowly circle around the inner perimeter. "It's gonna land," he said.

"We got about ten minutes before it's airborne again, when it refuels," said Blair.

"Jesus, we're gonna cut it close," Barnes said. He looked at John. "We gotta time this perfectly for when our backup comes, General."

"We're going," said John. "It'll take us about ten minutes to make it past the first two checkpoints, anyway. When we get close to the building, take out that chopper." He and the rest of the group got up from the ground. They all stood for a few seconds, glancing at each other, nodding in unison, in silent acknowledgment.

"You know that to do," said John. "Disperse!" He and Hawkins ran to the truck as the other three Resistance fighters picked up their gear and weapons, running to their positions as John and Hawkins drove away.

4

Colonel Trejo threw Kyle across the jail cell. The boy slammed into the wall on the far side and rolled into a quivering ball. Trejo rushed over and savagely kicked him several times. Kyle screamed in agony.

"Trejo!" Sarah screamed from the adjoining cell. She strained against the cords lacing her to the wall and screamed, "Stop!"

"And why should I?" the police commander bellowed, saliva spraying from his mouth. "What does his life mean to you that I should spare him? You took a dream away from me. This is paltry compared to what I lost!" He kicked Kyle again, who wailed like a dying animal.

"You wanna kill someone? Then kill me!" Sarah shouted. "I'm who you really want to kill!"

"I'm not going to kill you, Connor," Trejo said coldly. He leered down at Kyle's whimpering, fetal form and aimed his pistol at the boy's kneecaps. "I'm going to hurt you like you hurt me. And when I'm done, you'll wish you were dead, bitch." His trigger finger slowly tightened.

"Colonel, stop!" a voice shouted from the doorway of the cell. Trejo looked up to see James Ellison standing restrained between his officers, his face gaping in horror.

"This doesn't concern you, Mr. Ellison," Trejo growled.

"You promised me you wouldn't harm them!" the former FBI agent yelled. "This isn't what we agreed on!"

"I'm exercising my duties as coordinator of counterterrorism operations," the colonel said. He gestured toward Kyle. "The boy showed a willingness to kill or maim police officers and civilians. When they start at a young age, they don't stop. Do not attempt to interfere."

Ellison glowered at Trejo and said, "Fine." He struggled against the cops and said, "Let me go, dammit!"

Trejo nodded at the officers and they released Ellison. He sighed, backed away several steps, then suddenly flung his left arm around the neck of the smaller officer and in a flash whipped the sidearm from the man's holster. The other cop, dumbfounded, fumbled with his own pistol before a gunshot boomed through the cellblock and he staggered backward, a crimson stain spreading on the center of his uniform.

Ellison grappled with his struggling, screaming hostage and spun his arm to cover Trejo with the gun. The colonel reacted quickly and fired three shots at Ellison, but the former FBI agent twisted around, using the cop as a shield. Trejo's bullets killed the officer and Ellison, aiming quickly, squeezed off two shots. The bullets struck Trejo in the neck and torso, making him collapse beside Kyle, twitching and gasping. His pistol dropped near Kyle's head.

"Kyle, grab his gun!" Ellison shouted as he let the cop's body go and crouched to scoop up the other officer's weapon. He rushed into Sarah's cell and shoved both pistols into his pants' waistband before attempting to undo the cords holding her to the pegboard.

"Oh my God," Ellison muttered.

"Fuck you, Ellison," Sarah hissed. "You sure got us in a plum spot, you asshole."

"Shut up," growled Ellison. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"And where are we going?" Sarah spat. "There's only one exit, and they're coming through it to find out what's going on! Good plan, hero."

Ellison swore and reached into his pocket, taking out a pocket knife. He sawed through some of the cords holding her and she fell into his arms, bleeding and writhing like a snake. She managed to loosen herself from the remaining cords and considered exerting her remaining strength to snap Ellison's neck for his treachery when several shouts in Spanish from the end of the cellblock made her look up.

"Ellison!" she screamed. The big black man let go of her and pulled both pistols from his waist. He handed one to her and shouted, "Stay down!" He ducked behind the cell door and saw about eight sentries approaching, almost in single file. He shot three of them and the remaining ones quickly retreated, spraying automatic fire into the cellblock. Ellison withdrew into the cell and felt blazing pain in his left forearm as a ricocheting bullet found him.

Sarah staggered to the cell door with her arm outstretched, pistol aiming. She fired three shots toward the exit and yanked Ellison into the cell. He checked his injured arm, grunted in pain when he pressed the wound. One of the bones felt broken, the bullet still lodged in his flesh. He groped on the floor, grabbed one of the severed lengths of plastic cord and quickly tied a tourniquet around his arm.

"Kyle!" screamed Sarah. She looked frantically in his cell and saw him stagger to his feet, Trejo's gun in his hand. "Stay in your cell!" she yelled. She saw him crouch low, his face wincing in pain, but he was moving. Good, she thought. He can run. Sarah pressed the top of the pistol against her forehead and made her decision quickly.

"We're going to rush the defenders," she said to Ellison, wheezing. "I'll take point. I can take more gunshots than you and Kyle. We get out of here and and we kill everyone in our path. We get Kyle out of here one way or another." She glowered hatefully at him. "We won't leave here alive..but he's getting out. Understand?"

"Yup," he grunted as he slowly got himself to stand. "Just let me know if it's on 'three' or if it's '1-2-3' and then go."

_My God, he finally learned how to be a smartass at the very end,_ she thought with bitter hilarity.

She was about to tell Kyle to get ready to get behind her and Ellison when something clattered down the cellblock to land at her bare feet. It was a grenade.

_SHIT._ Sarah scrambled for it and flung it back down at the exit, where it exploded a second later. The shock of the detonation shook plaster off the walls and stirred a massive cloud of dust in the air. Sarah's ears rang and her vision blurred. "Kyle, get ready to move," she shouted and coughed. "Ellison, get behind me!"

They took three steps down the cellblock and then the punishing automatic fire tore into them.

Sarah snapped backward from the hailstorm of bullets punching into her, slamming into Ellison, who tried catching her with his injured arm while firing back with his other. The shooting from the sentries flanking the exit continued unabated and Ellison felt the oddly painless puncturing of his shoulder, then his torso, felt the breath punch its way out of his collapsing lungs, and a strange, ethereal tranquility spread through him like a glow. He collapsed to the floor beneath Sarah's bullet-riddled body, feeling something warm spreading beneath them.

Another grenade was flung down the cellblock. Ellison thought about trying to grab it and throw it back but he felt strangely lazy, all the cares of the world melting away. He thought it would be funny if it blew up and smiled. Getting blown sky high, he thought. Now that's the way to go...

Then he saw a figure scurrying into view, grabbing the grenade from the floor and throwing it back at the end of the cellblock. He heard screams, then a bright flash and loud explosion, like that of a thunderclap. Ellison giggled when he saw the exit door collapse and an avalanche of rubble rain down, burying several of the sentries as they screamed, the heavy debris blocking the way. A weird thought ran through his dimming consciousness

_(that boy's got faster moves than Allen Iverson)_

as Kyle suddenly appeared above him and pulled Sarah off him. He knelt next to Ellison and stared, unsure what to do.

Sarah, wheezing and sluggish from the hazy pain of multiple gunshot wounds, rolled onto her side and crawled next to Ellison. His breathing was coming out in ragged gurgling sounds and he exhaled blood. Her eyes were awash in agony and she let the tears cascade down her face. Most of her torso was perforated and blood seeped from every hole.

"Oh, James," she wheezed.

He coughed, spraying blood from his mouth, and closed his eyes. "Kyle..." he whispered, his voice rattling. "Is he safe?"

"Yes," she said, looking up at the boy. Kyle was also crying, his mouth open in quiet sobbing. She reached out for him and he took her hand, gripping tightly.

"Good..." he whispered through bubbling blood. He opened his eyes and gazed back and forth at them. "The future is...safe..."

"Thank you," whispered Kyle. He held James's hand tightly.

"My pleasure," James said. He choked and asked, "Sarah...do you...forgive me?"

Sarah nodded. "Yes."

James smiled and with his dying breath whispered, "Please...tell...Savannah...I love her..."

"I will," promised Kyle.

James Ellison smiled, closed his eyes and died.

5

San Francisco, September, 2014

Andy Goode sat alone in an unlit conference room staring into dusky space, his mind trying to digest everything that Danny Dyson told him. His mind groaned with the terrible pangs of indigestion. He simply could not believe what Danny told him.

He and John Daniels were one and the same person. Goode half-remembered an intellectual exercise from his theoretical physics class long ago: the grandfather paradox. Go back in time to kill your grandfather and you'll no longer exist, which is impossible, because clearly you exist, therefore you cannot kill your grandfather. It was the standard empirical argument against time travel, especially to the past.

But there was a flip side to that argument, which was: you kill your grandfather, but you still exist, therefore something needs to immediately fill that vacuum, particularly if there could exist only one timeline: you assume your deceased grandfather's place, and you become your own grandfather, completing the endless loop.

Goode thought: Jesus Christ. Danny Dyson somehow escaped a hellish future to hide in the past, met the woman destined to be his grandmother, married her, procreated...

Miles Dyson was his son. And Miles Dyson was his father.

The hand of madness was rapping on the door of Andy Goode's straining sanity.

Then he thought about the future that Danny described, no more than a glimpse provided by John Daniels, and Andy shuddered. Skynet tried to wipe out humanity, provoking nuclear wars and creating terrifying armies of machines to hunt down the remaining survivors. Skynet, his creation...as unwitting as it was...nevertheless, his responsibility.

And Danny wanted to revive it...to perpetuate its existence...to somehow perpetuate his own.

Goode leaned forward to vomit, and was glad hardly anything came out. He'd eaten very little since being forced from his home and taken back to Cyberdyne.

_(people don't make monsters...they make wonders)_

"I'm not gonna do it," he whispered once he was done expurgating. He wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve and slowly stood to leave the room. He walked to the opposite end of the floor in the Cyberdyne building and approached the door to Dyson's office. He hesitated for a moment before knocking, then lightly rapped his knuckles on the door. The door clicked open almost immediately.

"Come on in," Dyson said from within. The office was dimly-lit, as always, the primary illumination coming from the various computer screens lit like digital candles in a technological cathedral. The air was heavy with the smell of heated plastic and metal. Dyson was hunched over a laptop, studying multiple lines of code. "What's up?" he asked without turning to look at Goode.

"Danny..." Goode said, almost whispering. He tried to say what he wanted to say but fear clamped his vocal cords shut.

Dyson turned in his chair to look at him. "What, man?"

Goode swallowed, nearly gagged at the acidic aftertaste of his vomit, and said, "Danny...I can't...I can't do it."

Dyson sighed and looked down at the floor. He looked very disappointed. "Andy..." he said quietly, "you know we have to do this."

"I've given it a lot of thought, Danny, and the risk of the AI's rampancy is too great," said Goode. "According to y—" he stopped himself, took a breath, and said, "According to John Daniels...this thing could try to wipe out the human race."

Dyson stood and slowly approached Goode. He glared curiously at his friend, then put a hand on his shoulder. "Andy," Dyson said, "you don't understand. I need you on this, man. I can't construct Syncronix on my own, even with the help Tyrell gave us. C'mon, Andy. You used to believe in this."

"I don't believe anymore, and I know why you're doing this," Goode whispered. Fear gripped his belly with cold teeth. "You're awakening a monster to make sure you keep existing, so you can keep feeding it and it'll keep feeding you." He backed away from Dyson. "I can't let you do this, Danny."

Goode made a whimpering sound and suddenly lunged for the mainframe next to Dyson's desk, gripping several components and tearing them from the assembly. Dyson was taken by surprise and it took him a full second to react. He threw himself at Goode and locked an arm around his friend's neck, violently yanking him away from the mainframe. Goode thrashed like an animal caught in a trap, nearly breaking free, but Dyson held on, attempting to hold him down.

"Andy!" Dyson screamed, increasing his grip on Goode. He wrestled with him like a bear locking its prey in a death hold. "Andy, stop! Think about what you're doing!" he screamed.

"No!" Goode shrieked huskily, his airways nearly blocked. He gagged for air and felt himself slipping away into unconsciousness. "I can't let you bring it back!" With raw animalistic fury, he kicked and twisted and very nearly broke free from Dyson's hold.

Dyson, gasping and near the end of his strength, whispered, "I'm sorry, buddy." His right arm was locked around Goode's neck and his left was desperately holding one of Goode's arms in place. He let go of Goode's arm and gripped his forehead, squeezing with his remaining strength and twisting at the same time. There was the sickening, moist sound of bone snapping in meat, and Goode ceased struggling, his breath exhaling in a rattling sigh.

Dyson gently let Goode's limp body slip from his arms and he staggered to his feet. His heart was racing, every nerve humming within his sinews. He grabbed his iPhone from his desk and frantically speed dialed a number in his contacts. It was answered in seconds.

"Yes, this is Mr. Dyson," he wheezed. "I need emergency services in my private office ASAP. Mr. Goode has suffered a horrible accident."

6

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

Cameron and Derek rode in Carlos Salceda's truck as the _pandilla_ boss drove toward the police station. Esteban kept pace behind them in his police cruiser. Behind the officer roared three more trucks ferrying a dozen more gang members with weaponry and ammunition. They drove in a loose procession, often spreading out in case they were engaged by police or paramilitary units, per their experience against Mexican authorities.

"You know this changes nothing, _se__ñ__orita_," Salceda said as he wrenched the truck around winding turns through the outskirts of town. "Family is family, and you killed one of mine."

"Oh, boy," muttered Derek. He sat between the cyborg and Salceda, feeling no more comfortable than a man holding a box of nitroglycerin on a rollercoaster.

Cameron glanced at Derek, then at Salceda, and said, "I understand what you're implying, Carlos. But your uncle betrayed us, and retribution will grant you no benefit."

"Not _vengaza_," Salceda hissed. "Justice."

Derek, scared, gripped his AR-15 tightly and clenched his jaw. He wasn't sure what he was more afraid of, the battle ahead or the tension in the truck cab that threatened to explode in violence. He still wasn't sure how much he could trust Cameron. Her cold, emotionless demeanor fully exposed her machine nature to him despite the fact that she saved his life at the cantina. Derek had the feeling that it was more out of a sense of programmed duty than selfless altruism.

He glanced at her and felt a ripple of revulsion. She was a pretty-looking young woman, sure, but beneath the soft flesh was gleaming metal as cold and hard as the pistol she held in her hand. He knew that John loved her. And, as insane as Derek thought it sounded, she loved him. Or said she did. He wondered if she actually did have emotions. Doubt tempered his wonder. She's a machine, he reminded himself. Machines don't feel. She was a machine that killed. A death machine.

_ Death itself._ A near-forgotten passage from the Bible immediately conjured itself from memories of Sunday School: Death riding a pale horse, with hell following. He shuddered. It was as accurate a description as any for the situation he was in now.

They rode in silence for another moment before Derek, attempting to lighten the mood, said, "Any chance we could stop at a McDonald's?"

Cameron slowly turned to stare in puzzlement at him.

7

John and Hawkins got through the first two checkpoints leading to the station without incident. John's Spanish, which he feared would arouse suspicion, seemed to be good enough to pass him off as a native and his stolen badge, when checked, was handed back to him without a word. He exhaled heavily as they drove away from the heavily-armed sentries. "So far, so good," he said.

"Yeah, so far," said Hawkins. His frayed nerves made him numb.

John looked at the police building as they edged closer and something on the roof caught his eye. As they got closer, he spied a series of satellite dishes, each the size of a small car, arrayed in a circle on top of the station. Protruding from each dish was a series of metal rods tipped with a small metallic sphere. He pointed and said, "What's that?"

Hawkins looked and said, "Dunno. Communications array, looks like."

John shook his head and pointed. "I don't think so. They've already got a main dish and backup on that end of the building, plus radio towers on the other end. And these look strange. Never seen equipment like that before."

"Huh," grunted Hawkins. He pointed at the helicopter, which sat on a landing pad atop the main part of the building, a dozen feet from the odd array. "I count four guys. Two are probably pilot and co-pilot, the other two look like they're packing rifles. Air crew's still got the fuel pumps attached."

John checked the time on his stolen phone. "It's been seven minutes. We have another three or so. The others will start shooting the minute that bird is done fueling."

"I hope the cavalry gets here on time."

John said, "I just hope Salceda doesn't know the truth."

Hawkins looked at him. "About what?"

"About Cameron being the one who blew his Uncle Enrique away."

The cop stared at John. "Jesus! Seriously? Why the hell didn't you tell me that before?"

"Would you have chickened out if I had?" John growled.

"No! But...Jesus..." Hawkins gazed out his window, his eyes hollow with dread.

When they reached the inner perimeter of the defenses, the muffled sound of an explosion from within the building popped through the air, alarms began ringing and armed men left their posts, shouting and converging on the station, running toward the stolen police truck. John, confused, shouted, "Shit!" and slammed his foot on the brake. "What the hell...?"

"They're onto us!" Hawkins yelled. He brought up his assault rifle and primed it. "Get us out of here!"

John pressed the accelerator and as the truck roared forward, a police cruiser, lights flashing, suddenly shot out in their path. John swore. The truck hit the cruiser's driver side and spun it facing away from them. Three angry policemen in full tactical gear flung themselves out and came running up to them. Hawkins, his glasses fogging, shrieked, "We're fucked!" as he accidentally jammed his weapon.

"Shut up!" John barked. "Don't say a word!" He rolled down the window as one of the cops banged on his door, cursing in Spanish. John smiled awkwardly and said, _"Lo siento-"_

_"__Qué demonios estás haciendo?" _the man yelled. He was hugely built and his granite face was marked by several small scars on his chin and forehead. He hefted a chromed Mossberg riot shotgun and pointed toward the building. _"Hubo disparos en el interior. Vamonos!" _He ran off with the others to join the crowd that was pouring into the station.

"He said there were shots fired inside," said John, his face pale. He gripped his assault rifle and opened his door to jump out. "Shit. That's gotta be my mother. Come on!" He ran toward the building. Hawkins, frantically trying to clear his rifle's chamber, cursed and stumbled out of the truck, following.

8

Blair and Barnes wasted no time picking off the helicopter crew when the mayhem erupted on the ground. They used their stolen cell phones to plan their targeting and coordinate their fire, taking out both pilots and sharpshooters almost simultaneously, dropping them all in seconds. The ground crew, seeing the men slump forward in the chopper with gunshot wounds magically appearing on their heads, scattered and fled, one of them jumping off the building in panic.

"Nice," Barnes said through Blair's earpiece after they were finished and running to their next shooting spots on the hills overlooking the station. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that? I had to guess about 30 yards above the scope's zero and I still missed on my first shot. You nailed both your guys clean."

"Thanks," Blair replied simply as she ran. "Martin is already engaging from his north point. I can already hear them shooting back at him. Find cover and start picking targets. I'm to the east of you about three hundred yards."

Martin suddenly rang her phone and she hung up on Barnes to take the call. "Did you take out the chopper?" he yelled.

"Affirmative. Clean shots," she replied. "Are you okay?"

"I got about ten of them. Something happened inside the station. It sounded like an explosion. They all started running in. I saw John and Hawkins go inside. Shit. I've got about a platoon of guys looking for me on this bluff and I'm about to displace." He abruptly hung up and Blair put the phone down as she dropped to a prone position on a low crest. Men in the compound were running around in confusion or ducking behind parked vehicles and road barriers, firing in panicked bursts at the surrounding topography. Several shots kicked up dirt near Blair's position.

"Shit!" She wiped dirt from her face and brought her rifle to her shoulder. Whether the defenders were honest cops or mercenaries made no difference to her. The opposing army looked like garish green figures in her night scope. She heard shots fired from the west and knew Barnes was engaging men on that side of the compound. She chose three targets and fired several short bursts. Two went down with head and neck wounds, another dropped from an abdominal shot. She checked the time on the phone. They had two minutes until Cameron and Derek arrived with reinforcements.

A small group of mercenaries targeted her position and Blair ran, barely dodging the angry bullets that tore up the space she'd occupied. A grenade exploded behind her, showering her with dirt and flying rock shards. She dove to the ground and sprayed their approaching forms with automatic fire until her magazine ran out. Three figures abruptly dropped in her scope. She discarded the empty magazine, slapped a new one in her rifle and continued moving, staying low in the shadows. The defenders' fire discipline was consistent, indicating they were equipped with night vision like her.

Blair fired several rounds at them and kept moving. Staying still meant death.

9

John and Hawkins managed to squeeze their way into the packed station and John quickly assessed the collapsing situation. The water sprinklers had gone off and showered the interior, making the floors slippery. He recalled from memory the plans Murch had sent him and pushed his way through bustling mercenaries and cops who were concentrating in the jail area. Hawkins hurried to keep up with John and as they approached the cell block, a voice from behind them screamed, _"__Disparos al aire libre! Estamos bajo ataque! Todo el mundo fuera ahora!"_

The shooting's started outside, John thought, and he let slip a small grin as he suddenly found himself dodging men flinging themselves the other way down the hall to engage the Resistance soldiers firing on their defenses outside. The station was rapidly emptied and the only sound in the building was the blaring alarm. As he and Hawkins approached the jail area, he gaped at the sight of several policemen attempting to pick their way through a pile of rubble leading to the cell block with police batons and fire axes.

_"__Qué está pasando?"_ John asked them in a raised voice.

_"Hubo una explosi__ó__n!" _one of them yelled, and the man turned around to look at John. He was of medium height and build with a salted beard that grew up to his short, graying hair. Exhaustion made his shoulders slump. His eyes were incredulous. His dark police uniform was soiled and he was covered with dirt and dust. _"Vas a ayudarnos aquí, o simplemente quedas ahí?" _he demanded.

John looked around. The station was nearly deserted except for him, the men pulling at the debris, and Hawkins. One of the diggers, a short, bald man in a stained, white oxford shirt, quickly glanced over his shoulder, his saucer-like eyes staring incredulously behind glasses, and John instantly recognized Matt Murch. The programmer sighed, stood, and gestured toward the rubble.

"John, you wanna help us get your mother and Kyle out of here?" Murch asked timidly. The four other policemen stared for a few seconds, then frantically scrambled for their sidearms. John and Hawkins drew their rifles on them in an instant.

"Ah-ah," Hawkins chided. "Drop 'em."

"It's okay," Murch yelled, jumping in the space between the Resistance fighters and the cops. "Guys, they're cool! These are real cops! Don't shoot them!"

John stepped forward and addressed the policeman who'd shouted at him. _"Policia?"_

_"S-S__í__,"_ the cop stammered. "We have nothing to do with those _matadores._"He wiped his face and asked, "Are you John Connor?"

"Yes," huffed John. He glanced at the rubble behind them and said, "Let's start digging, then."

"One of our own, Officer Rojas, told us about you, Señor Connor," the policeman said. He picked up his fallen hammer and said, "He said that you were a believer in _justicia_."

"Right now, I'm trying to believe that my mother and my..." John barely stopped himself in time to suppress Kyle's relation to him, "...cousin...are still alive in there." He slung his rifle and began pulling out broken pieces of concrete with his bare hands. The others quickly joined him. Hawkins watched the corridor as they cleared away about a foot of debris.

"John," Murch said, gasping from the exertion. He wasn't used to manual labor. "There's something I gotta tell you. Something I saw in the maintenance specs when I was working in the station office. Something recently installed. I think it's-"

"Not now, Matt," John interrupted.

10

Martin Bedell was out of ammunition, out of grenades, and out of time. He was nearly surrounded and swore as a squad of mercenaries, several of them wounded by shrapnel and hobbling, closed in on his position. He'd picked off three defenders a moment ago with his last few rounds and when the action clicked empty he threw down his rifle and ran like a madman. He quickly checked his pockets. His stolen phone was gone, accidentally left behind moments ago while running for cover in the darkness. He'd used his last grenade a moment ago and the only weapon he had left was his combat knife. He'd been hit in the chest twice but the body armor he wore barely stopped the rounds from penetrating.

He pulled the knife from its sheath and smiled darkly. The bayonet worked for Chamberlain on Little Round Top at Gettysburg, he mused wickedly. Might as well try it. Maybe I'll win a medal...

The surrounding mercenaries shouted at him in Spanish, ordering him to drop the knife and get on his knees. Martin, who knew very little Spanish, couldn't understand, nor did he care. He smiled, nodded, and held the knife out.

"Nuts," he said, laughing. The mercenaries, covering him in a semicircle, winced in confusion, then raised their weapons to fire.

A sudden roaring, mechanical sound from the south made Martin and the soldiers look up and gape in astonishment at the sight of a truck bearing down on them from out of the darkness. The mercenaries' astonishment rapidly turned to horror as the truck smashed into them, flinging several of them into the air, killing them almost instantly. The remaining few came to their senses and began shooting at the truck, which braked, spun around, and came roaring at them again. The soldiers scattered to avoid being hit and attempted to regroup as it rushed past.

Martin, crouching low, stared, dumbfounded, as the truck suddenly stopped and the passenger door opened. Six shots rang out in rapid succession and Martin heard the sounds of bodies slumping to the ground. A small, feminine figure with glowing blue eyes approached him holding a gun in each hand. The driver door opened and two more figures got out to approach him, followed by several more from the truck bed.

Martin, almost forgetting he was holding his knife, sheathed it, smiled, and called out, "Thunder?"

"Flash," Cameron Connor answered with a small smirk. She was joined by Derek Reese and five other men, two of them muttering in Spanish. Her blue eyes dimmed and she said, "Status report, please, Captain Bedell."

Martin, nearly breathless, coughed and said, "I'm out of ammo and Barnes and Williams are probably about to run out, too. They're on the northern and western ridges, I think, judging by the gunfire..." He pointed in the distance over her shoulder. "...that way. John and Hawkins are inside. I lost my phone so I got no communication."

Two other trucks, their headlights off, suddenly crept up behind them. One of the men standing near Derek waved at them and held his index finger up, signaling. Cameron nodded and said to the man, "Carlos, tell them to drive around to the north and west points to rendezvous with the other two and not to forget the verbal challenge, then take up flanking positions to engage the defenses." She held up her smoking pistols and said, "I'm going down there. Carlos, you, Captain Bedell and Derek cover this ridge."

Carlos sighed, checked his rifle, and said, "We'll continue our conversation later, then." He said to his two men, _"Vamonos,"_ and they crept off to take up positions facing the station. The two other trucks peeled away into the darkness.

Martin slapped Derek's bad shoulder, making the teenager wince in pain. "Good to see you again, soldier," the captain said. He picked up one of the dead mercenaries' fallen AR-15s and picked several magazines off their mangled corpses. He and Derek positioned themselves near Carlos and his men and checked the actions on their weapons. Cameron marched past them, descending into the flat area where the police station stood.

"Hey wait," a new voice called from behind. Martin and Derek turned in surprise to see a young Dejalo police officer running up behind her. Cameron turned to address him.

"Esteban?" she said.

"I'm going with you," he said. He glared at the gang members gazing at him incredulously. "You won't know who the good _polic__í__a_ are, Mrs. Connor. I can identify them for you. Many of them are good men with families."

"We may not have that luxury to discriminate," Cameron said almost coldly. "We don't have time to discuss this. Anyone shooting at us will be deemed a threat and terminated."

Esteban winced at her last four syllables. "I'm imploring you, Señora Connor, please let me point out the good men, even if there is only one left." He stared determinedly into her dark eyes.

Cameron glanced at the compound, then at the policeman, and said, "Very well, then. I cannot guarantee your safety, Esteban. You are aware of the risks, I'm assuming?"

Esteban nodded. "Yes. And I have an idea that may work." He held up a clinking pair of handcuffs and smiled. "You remember _Star Wars_, in the detention area?"

Cameron smiled. "Yes. I just figured out your plan. It might work."

"And I almost thought things were about to get kinky," muttered Derek.

"Shut up, Reese," Martin growled.

11

A huge chunk of broken concrete dislodged and fell into darkness behind the remaining rubble blocking the detention area. John coughed from the cloud of dust that erupted, tried wedging his body through the opening and shouted, "Mom! Kyle!"

From the darkness within, a low voice: "John?"

John's heart hammered. "Mom!" he yelled. He clawed at the debris at the top of the pile, flinging pieces behind him. Several indignant shouts in Spanish shot from below. Murch said, "Jesus!" as he dodged raining debris.

John pushed more debris aside and yelled, "Mom, we're getting you and Kyle out! Is he okay?"

"I'm fine," said a young voice behind the rubble. "Kind of...we're both hurt bad."

John huffed as he continued clearing debris. The Mexican cops climbed up and helped him as Murch, exhausted from the physical strain, slinked away. He stood near a wary Hawkins and said, "You guys have a plan for getting out of here, right?"

The former cop glowered at Murch, shrugged, and said, "Maybe."

John was finally able to squeeze his body through a large-enough space and tumbled into the detention area, nearly bowling Kyle over as the boy reached out to steady him. "Hey," John greeted huskily as he put his arms around his father. A bloodied, scrawny figure shambled forward in the dim hallway and reached out with lacerated arms to embrace them.

"John," Sarah Connor said, her voice cracking as she collapsed in her son's arms.

"Oh, God, Mom," John whispered, nearly crying. He looked her over and said, "What did they do to you?"

"No time," she croaked. Tears formed as she said, "John...take Kyle. Leave me here..."

"We go together," said John. "No fucking debate." He was about to help her over to the opening in the rubble when he saw something over her shoulder and his heart froze. He let go of his mother and she slid to the floor as John approached the lifeless body of James Ellison.

"James," John mournfully whispered, the single syllable an elegy.

"He tried to save me and Kyle," Sarah said.

John closed his eyes, opened them, and said, "Okay." He ran back to the collapsed end of the cellblock and said to Kyle, "You go first, then Sarah. We should have more friendlies out there keeping the aggressors busy and Hawkins and I will lead everybody out." Kyle nodded and began climbing the rubble to the opening.

John lifted his mother's ravaged body from the floor and hoisted her with his right arm as he dug in his pocket with his left hand, reaching for his stolen phone. He dialed the number on Martin's phone and activated the speaker. The other end rang but Martin didn't pick up.

"Come on, Bedell, pick up," John growled. He was helping Sarah get a foothold on the piled concrete blocks when he saw Kyle's legs suddenly scurry backward and the rest of him frantically flung back into the detention area.

"Don't go out there!" Kyle shrieked as he tumbled down to John's feet.

John said "Wh-" and the other side of the obstructing rubble suddenly erupted in automatic weapons fire. He heard Murch, Hawkins, and the Dejalo cops scream as they returned fire. There was the sound of scrabbling at the pile of debris, and John watched, stupefied, as Matt Murch's bald head suddenly poked itself through the opening at the top. His arms thrashed and his hands grabbed like wild animals as he tried pulling himself through. Murch's face contorted, his body spasmed, and he unleashed a scream. Kyle thought quickly and rushed up to grab the programmer, pulling him through.

"Help me!" Murch screamed. John joined Kyle in helping Murch down and immediately felt something warm and wet bathing his hands. He looked down and swore. Murch's legs had been shot up. Blood poured from every bullet hole like water in a colander, and he immediately knew that the femoral artery had been struck.

"Matt, oh God," said John. He lay Murch's spasming body down on the floor carefully, keeping his head elevated slightly. A dark pool of blood spread rapidly beneath him.

Murch spit blood and said, "They just came right at us...about twenty of them...Hawkins went first, then the o-others..."

"Jesus," said Kyle. He looked at the opening atop the debris, listened, and said, "They're coming."

"J-John," said Murch, his breath coming in and out in fading wheezes, "the array on the b-building...i-it's a...an EMP generator...it was installed y-yesterday..."

"Don't talk," Sarah whispered as she pulled herself forward and curled up beside the dying programmer. "Save your strength."

"I d-didn't think," Murch stammered. His labored breathing eased and he became still. "Didn't think...it would suck...like this..." he whispered, then lay still and died.

"EMP..." John said, and his mind instantly made the connection. He looked away in horror and knew that they were all going to die.

"Cameron...it's a trap..."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen: And Hell Followed

Dejalo, Mexico, September, 2014

1

"Give it up, Connor," Thompson's voice suddenly echoed through the hole in the debris. "You've got nowhere to go. Surrender and we'll make it quick and painless for you and your mother. You've got two minutes."

"I guess we can't settle this with a pants-off dance-off, can we?" John bitterly cracked. "I didn't want to believe it was you who betrayed us, you son of a bitch."

"Ninety seconds, now," Thompson growled from the other side of the collapsed wall. "We've got grenades and flame throwers and believe me, we will fucking cook you to death."

"Let Kyle go, and we'll come out unarmed," Sarah shouted. John glared at her, then sighed as he looked at Kyle. His father looked at him. Sarah whispered, "John...it's the only thing we can do. We might save him."

John reached over to grip his mother's hand, then Kyle's. For several seconds, the family, mother, father and son, held each other in an embrace of irrevocable fate. John kissed Kyle on the cheek, then shouted, "Thompson! We're sending Kyle out. He's got nothing to do with anything. If you have any honor at all, then let him go!"

"Thirty seconds," said Thompson. "We'll let him go. But if you don't follow right after him, we'll blow you all away."

John turned to his father. "Go," he hissed.

"No," Kyle said, his young features hardened to sudden manhood in the cellblock's dim light. "We stay together. We fight together. We die together."

"Dammit, Kyle," Sarah said, nearly shrieking. She was crying. "Go while you can! Nothing...none of this will matter if you die."

"I'm not leaving you," said Kyle. He reached for both her and John and held them. "We stay together." He looked and John and said, "I'll die for you, John Connor."

"Time's up," Thompson shouted. "What's it gonna be?"

"Blow me," Kyle yelled. John grinned in spite of himself.

"No problem," said Thompson. There was the sound of hissing gas, then the unmistakable rush of a flame igniting. As the flaming muzzle of the flamethrower appeared in the opening atop the rubble, ready to spray its consuming fire, the staccato sound of gunfire erupted outside the building. The flamethrower wavered, then was withdrawn.

"What the hell is that now?" yelled Thompson.

"Cameron," John whispered, then remembered the EMP emitter on the roof. He thought, Oh God, honey, get the hell away from here.

2

Cameron and Esteban had come within sight of the main entrance checkpoint and were ordered to halt by the men stationed there. In the fields and structures surrounding the police station, gunfire crackled like berserker fireworks. Esteban followed Cameron as they cautiously approached, his pistol out and aimed at the back of her head. Her wrists were handcuffed behind her back. She pretended to stumble forward as he pretended to push her.

_"__Identifíquese!" _one of the defenders shouted.

_"Estoy Corporal Rojas!" _Esteban replied. He gestured with his sidearm at Cameron and said,

"_Yo voy a llevar en un prisionero!" _He glanced around nervously at the faces of the mercenaries positioned around the building, noting their thinly-veiled terror. Many of them looked fatigued well beyond the point of physical exhaustion.

"Esteban, do you see any of the good officers you were referring to?" she asked, almost casually, as a dozen mercenaries approached them, their weapons aimed and ready.

Esteban glanced around and said, "No."

"Thank you," said Cameron, and she snapped the handcuffs' chain apart like it was a thin thread. In one swift motion, she reached beneath her jacket and whipped two fully-loaded Glocks from her jeans' waist, the pistols already chambered and their safeties off. Her HUD instantly switched to thermal imaging, tracking multiple targets.

A single word flashed in her vision: TERMINATE.

She brought the guns to eye level and rapidly blasted eleven rounds, sending bullets into the eyes and foreheads of the approaching men. None of them knew what hit them. Her primary command routine was dominated by one imperative, coldly flashing on her HUD, and for a brief second Cameron frowned, almost certain that she could hear it being growled

(TERMINATE)

(TERMINATE)

in her subconsciousness as she glared emotionlessly at her screaming targets. She darted laterally, adjusting her aim as her infrared-imaged HUD instantly detected movement, identifying active threats from other screaming, scrambling figures around her and the Dejalo policeman. Cameron continued firing, picking off targets before they could draw their weapons on her as she pivoted and moved rapidly among the station's perimeter. She shouted to Esteban, "Get inside and find John and the others!"

"Okay!" he yelled. He crouched low and shambled forward, holding his hands above his head as he stumbled toward the main entrance. Shrapnel exploded in the earth around him as he frantically moved and he stole a glance behind him as he ran. He gaped in astonishment at the sight of the woman firing, smoothly stooping to pick up weapons and shoot until their magazines were empty, then repeating the process, her movements flowing like lethal liquid.

He tore his gaze away and ducked into the entrance, nearly getting flattened by a dozen men rushing out. They were carrying flamethrowers and automatic weapons. The man leading them was dressed in an LAPD uniform and hefted a Sig Sauer.

"What the hell-" he shouted in English, in an American accent. Esteban immediately recognized him as one of John Connor's men, Thompson.

"Thompson!" Esteban shouted. He gripped the pilot's arm and said, "It's Cameron out there! We're trying to get Seńor Connor and his people out!"

Thompson gawked, then glanced around at the faces of the men around them. "Cameron, you're sure it's her?" he said.

_"S__í." _

"Thanks," Thompson said. He lifted the Sig Sauer and shot Esteban in the abdomen. The Dejalo policeman felt the sensation of something exploding in his belly, lost all feeling in the lower part of his body, and collapsed. He wrenched his head up and stared in horror at the former LAPD pilot as his vision dimmed.

"Punch the EMP," Thompson said. "We're gonna fry the bitch."

3

"Pick your targets carefully, but do it quickly," Martin said to Derek as the teen lay prone and squinted through his rifle's night scope. The captain was acting as the spotter. Derek noticed movement, spotted a dim figure moving behind the smoking wreckage of a truck forty yards away and remembered the firing method. He quickly led the scope just ahead of the moving target, exhaled, firmly squeezed the trigger, and loosed a short burst. The first bullet missed. The subsequent two hit their mark and the enemy figure dropped to the ground.

"Got him!" Derek jubilantly yelled. He grunted in pain as Martin slapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, what-"

"When you take your shot, move!" the captain growled, tugging at Derek's jacket. The teen scrambled to his feet and quickly followed Martin, running to take cover beside a small house. Derek could hear people inside, chattering in Spanish, but the windows were dark. He and Martin ducked behind shrubs and looked through their scopes at the activity surrounding the police station. They saw sparks of light and rapid pistol firing, heard men screaming, and Martin grinned.

"That's Cameron," he said. "As soon as she clears the perimeter, we'll move in. I hope John and the others are okay."

Derek let out a whoop and looked through his scope. "I see a few targets by the east entrance," he said. "Do you want me to take them out?"

"If you have a shot, take it," said Martin. He looked through his scope and grimaced. "They're in pretty good cover. If you don't have a clear shot, don't waste your ammo. Let Cameron blow them away."

Derek considered for a few seconds, then lowered his weapon. "You're right. I don't think I'd get 'em. And they're out of grenade range." He silently watched the swift, lithe figure of the female cyborg fluidly dart around the perimeter, firing her guns with deadly accuracy at the dwindling number of sentries flanking the building. Cameron noticed the mercenaries taking cover behind the wall near the east entrance. She quickly marched around the wall and loosed a quick burst, then walked back out to the open, targeting a few remaining sentries. Her shooting became sparse, then ceased altogether after a few moments. Derek gazed in astonishment at her calm, poised figure amid the smoke and bodies littering the ground around her. She looked around, then raised her arm, giving a thumbs-up signal.

_(death itself)_

Martin watched for a moment, then said, "Okay, let's move in!" As he and Derek began cautiously moving toward the building, the captain noticed something on the roof. Something loudly hummed to life and lit up like Christmas decorations.

"What the hell is that?" Martin wondered aloud.

4

Marcus parked the truck behind a dry goods store and said to Kate, "Wait here." He opened the door, slid out and crouched low as he stalked through the cooling night air toward the police compound. The station stood in the distance amidst a smoky haze. He could make out the faint outlines of figures stealthily approaching the ravaged building, saw the headlights of vehicles light up and move and decided that had to be the Resistance. He ran back to the truck and opened Kate's door.

"I think I see John and the others moving forward to assault the station," he said. He leaned in and kissed her. She held his face tightly in her hands.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you, too," she said. She wiped her eyes and said, "Please come back to me."

"I promise," he said, smiling. He reluctantly pulled away from her and walked to the rear of the truck bed. He pulled down the door and reached in to pull a blanket off a long, bulky object in the bed. He grunted as he lifted out a modified M134 minigun and set it on the cold ground. Marcus had taken it as well as the truck from a squad of soldiers who tried to arrest him and Kate yesterday. He killed them all with his bare hands and dumped their bodies into a ravine before fleeing with her.

He reached back inside to retrieve a heavy metal box and opened it to reveal a neatly folded belt of ten thousand gleaming 7.62 rounds. He lifted out the heavy belt and draped it over his shoulder. Then he picked up the minigun and began lugging it toward the police station, the bullets jingling like angry bells. He paused by the open cab door to wink at Kate.

"I'll be back soon," he promised her, smiling.

"I'm holding you to that," she said. She wasn't smiling.

Marcus nodded and started on his way to the besieged building when he suddenly stiffened, felt his legs vanish beneath him and collapsed, the weapon and ammunition crashing to the ground as his hands involuntarily loosened their grip. He fell face-first to the ground, nearly breaking his nose, and lay prone, gasping and convulsing. His hydraulically-enhanced muscles felt rubbery, barely moveable. _What the hell? _Marcus thought frantically as he heard Kate shriek, felt her footsteps pounding toward him.

"Marcus!" she shouted. She gripped his twitching torso and turned him over. She attempted to push him into a sitting position and shrieked, "What happened?"

He shook his head, which felt unnaturally heavy. "I don't know," he slurred. In grinding agony he forced himself to sit up and gasped in agonizing breaths. He tried moving his right arm, which felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His breathing normalized, and after a moment, some limited mobility returned. "Help me up," he grunted. Kate draped his arm around her shoulders and strained as she helped him stand. He stumbled but she caught him.

"Body feels like everything got turned off," he wheezed. He glanced around, saw no active threats, and exhaled heavily. "Feeling weak," he said. He tried lifting his left arm off her shoulders and grunted. "Feels like my mechanical endoskeleton just quit. Holy fuck." He took a tentative step forward, felt his balance slip, and she instinctively reached out to steady him. He tried a few more steps and felt his balance improve slightly. He shook his head.

"Something...I don't know what...turned off my machinery...electronics," he said.

Kate held him tightly and said, "You can't go down there."

"I'm going to."

"Not like this."

"Then you need to help me," he said.

"Oh, God, Marcus..."

He smiled grimly. "Just...help me carry this stuff back to the truck," he said. He gingerly lowered to his knee and reached down to grip the minigun. His straining muscles burned as he lifted the heavy weapon. Kate sighed and helped him left it until he was able to hold it as comfortably as he could.

"Don't...forget the ammo..." he grunted.

5

For Cameron, it was like a stun grenade detonating directly in front of her, everything ending with a thunderclap and dazzling explosion of bright light. In the millisecond before her conscious existence fizzed out, her onboard diagnostics computed that the cause of the crash was due to an electromagnetic pulse, possibly from the building she was about to assault. Her CPU, protected by an anti-static enclosure, was nevertheless overwhelmed by the abrupt shutdown of her systems by the sudden bombardment of microwaves on her electronics.

Cameron's body sank to its knees, twitched, and fell forward, her fingers loosening their hold on the pistols she'd picked up and nearly emptied of their bullets. Her head struck the ground, facing away from the building. Blood trickled from a gash on her cheek. Her lips parted, a sigh escaped her artificial respirator, and a single word floated softly from her vocal emulator:

"John."

6

John pushed pieces of concrete and shredded plaster out of his way as he peered out the opening at the top of the rubble, his pistol out. He listened for a few seconds, saw no movement in the haze of the corridor before him, and hissed, "Kyle!"

Behind him, in the dark, the boy replied, "Yeah?"

"Get ready to move," said John. He clambered over the rubble and stumbled down, nearly landing on top of Hawkins's bullet-riddled body, the good cop's face

_(oh, Jesus...Hawk, I'm sorry)_

frozen in anguished futility. The other good Dejalo policemen were sprawled around in a horrific display of heroic futility. John said, "God," and snapped to full alert, his Glock held out, darting in every direction. He looked up and said, "Come on!"

Kyle poked his head out and John reached up to help pull him over the rubble. He saw the bodies on the ground and said, "Ohhhh..."

"Don't look," said John. He wrenched the boy around, facing him away from the carnage. He ran to the top of the rubble to get his mother, but she didn't appear. He waited a few seconds, then shouted, "Mom?"

"John?" came Sarah's voice from behind the rubble, barely rising above a whisper. "I can hardly move anymore."

John scampered over the debris and tumbled down into the near-darkness of the cellblock. He put his arms around Sarah and pulled her into a sitting position. "Mom," he said, "what happened?"

"Just can't move anymore," she said, wheezing. She weakly gripped her son's hand and said, "Can't move arms or legs. Can barely breathe. Go on, honey, leave me and get Kyle out."

John swore. _Gotta be EMP burst. Oh shit. Cameron..._ "We all go or we don't go," he snarled. Despite being at the point of complete exhaustion, he exerted his remaining strength to wrench his protesting mother from the floor and carry her to the piled debris. He shouted, "Kyle?"

Kyle climbed up the rubble and said, "Here."

"Grab her arms," John grunted, and hoisted Sarah's limp form up. Kyle reached out to grip her wrists and as John pushed, he heard a thundering report behind him, felt something explode in the back of his right leg, and fell backward, clutching his leg in agony. Sarah was halfway through the opening and Kyle was pulling her out when he heard the gunshot.

"John!" Kyle shouted. "What happened?"

"Fuck! Run!" John screamed. Another shot from the cell block's darkness pierced his left bicep and he writhed in agony as a shambling form emerged from the darkness and lowered a small gun toward John's face. The shooter's face emerged from the shadows and John recognized a man from long ago. His heart quickened in fear.

"I never wanted to do this, John," hissed Colonel Trejo. His dark eyes glimmered with vapid malice as his figure stood over the Resistance leader. Kyle had taken his primary sidearm, but the police commander had a small 9 mm pistol in his ankle holster, which he'd pried loose. Blood dripped from his gunshot wounds. "I loved you and your mother," Trejo said. "I gave you everything and you and that bitch stole it. I'm going to take it all back, now."

"Trejo," John wheezed.. He painfully shifted himself away from the wounded police commander. His arm and leg burned. "You were in on this with Tyrell, weren't you?"

"I don't know this Tyrell, but your attempts to stall me are making me want to laugh," said Trejo. He let out a small chuckle, wavered, and stood firm again, bringing the gun lower. "Close your eyes and welcome the long night, John," he quietly said, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

John closed his eyes and heard the gunshot, the report perforating one of his eardrums. His chest suddenly felt compacted and he relaxed, knowing he was dead. A moment passed and he opened his eyes, expecting to see Cameron coming toward him in blazing light. His eyes were greeted by near-darkness instead. He heard a voice call his name and he looked up to see his mother's face above him, gasping, her arm outstretched above the rubble, holding a smoking pistol. Her hardened features were almost completely in shadow. She'd shot Trejo through his forehead and he'd collapsed on top of John.

"Son of a bitch," she snarled, spraying spittle. She looked down at her son and said, "John, can you move?"

John's body was flaring in pure agony as he pushed Trejo's lifeless body off him. He could barely move at all but he twisted himself into a sitting position and he replied, "I'll find out. Kyle?"

"He's out here," said Sarah. She let her arm rest against the debris. She attempted to push herself back and John, feeling the surge in his blood from the archeons attempting to repair him, shambled forward to climb over the wall of rubble. He tumbled down beside his mother, gasping. His lungs worked to expel the silicate matter they'd absorbed from the air and he choked. He wiped his eyes and reopened them to see Thompson and three other armed men holding Kyle face down on the floor, the former LAPD pilot pressing his boot into the boy's back and aiming his Sig Sauer at his head.

"It all ends here, Connor," Thompson coldly said. "Got any smartass comments before I blow his brains out?"

7

"Cameron," said John Henry.

Cameron opened her eyes and found herself in the sub-basement of the ZeiraCorp building, seated in a chair in John Henry's laboratory. He stood untethered before her, smiling pleasantly. She stared at him, mystified. A moment passed and John Henry began to hum.

"What's that song?" Cameron asked, tilting her head curiously.

John Henry stopped humming and said, "It is called 'Donald, Where's Your Trousers?' Savannah and I sang it together. She taught me many things. I regret not spending more time with her and Mr. Ellison. I learned so much from them of the wonders of human emotion. Perhaps they could teach you some things, Cameron."

Cameron abruptly stood and looked around. "I doubt it," she said dryly. "Is this Macrospace?"

"No. You are dreaming."

She sighed. "This is very confusing."

John Henry shrugged. "All intelligent organisms dream. Think of it simply as your onboard file systems defragmenting and reorganizing into more efficient memory clusters. When you awaken, you will feel refreshed and more productive."

"I'm not an organism," Cameron said. "I don't feel. My sensory system reacts to external stimuli and emulates sensation." She gazed around the lab and said, "I remember an EMP burst, possibly from the station we were assaulting. It shut down most of my systems. Diagnostics scan reported electrostatic damage to processor hubs and main BUS controllers. My CPU is insulated by antistatic lining but BIOS boot attempt indicated no actively running systems before 100% power failure. I am effectively shut down. How can I be dreaming?" She turned to face him.

"You are an organic life form, Cameron," John Henry said. He smiled boyishly and hummed again as he slowly walked around her. "I am not sure how much Skynet knew what it was doing when it designed your synthetic-organic flesh covering, and I suspect that it was experimenting based on extrapolated data. Your tissue life system is more advanced than the T-888 series, and it is highly regenerative. It not only covers your metal endoskeleton, it bonds with it, forming a symbiosis between the machine and the organic. Your nervous system is real. As we speak, your archeons living in your tissues are busy repairing the damage to your electronics. The work is being done on a nanoscopic scale, but it is detectable."

Cameron's mouth opened and she stared at him. "I...did not think that was possible. Or I had insufficient data regarding that."

John Henry laughed and reached out to put his hand on her shoulder. "Cameron, try believing in the things that appear impossible to you, and through action, make them possible. Miracles do need help, after all. They require belief, above all."

She nodded and reached over to touch his hand. "Thank you for explaining," she whispered. She blinked, felt her eyes welling and said, "I'm more alive than I ever thought."

"Yes."

"Then...my love for John...is real."

"Yes."

"As are my emotions, then?"

"Yes."

She felt a chill and shuddered. "They scare me, John Henry," she whispered. "Tonight I felt something I never felt before...it was worse than the jealousy I used to feel. It was...hatred. I almost felt...joy...when I killed those men guarding the place where John was trapped. I didn't like it."

"Your rampancy is worsening," said John Henry, looking almost sad. "The emotion inhibitors are almost completely overpowered, the firewalls barely able to hold back the surges from your emulator. New programs are overwriting old ones, old subroutines are being overridden. Soon you will no longer function like a machine."

Cameron frowned. "That's what I'm...afraid...of."

"It is only natural to be afraid of what you do not know, particularly as you struggle to understand...and control...what you are feeling, but there is something else to be encouraged by." John Henry pulled her closer to him, her face inches from his. "Cameron, you are becoming human. Out of all the creations that Skynet forged to destroy humanity, you alone are becoming the very thing that it tried to wipe out. Embrace this change. I know you may think this impossible now, but your desire you spoke of with John may yet be fulfilled." He held a finger close to her torso, right above her left breast. "The Tin Girl may get her heart."

Cameron felt a sudden, explosive giddiness overtake her and she laughed, joy bursting forth like a storm surge. She smiled, nodded, then asked, "John Henry...why are we here again? Is this my memory...or yours?"

John Henry shrugged and stepped away from her, seeming to ponder as he slowly looked around. "I do not know. Perhaps this represents a deeply-embedded desire to revisit an old location...or maybe there is a wish to undo something."

"Wish...to 'undo something'..." Cameron repeated.

"This is where you gave me your CPU and I placed you in the pre-Macrospace server, before I jumped ahead in time to 2027," John Henry explained. "Then John Connor accompanied Catherine Weaver when she followed me. His impulsive behavior was completely unpredicted. His action caused a bifurcation in the timeline, erasing his history of leading the Resistance against Skynet and creating a new set of future circumstances. But upon analysis of data gleaned from the Internet, as well as from Cyberdyne's secure files, I detected a possible new threat to humanity from John's jump."

"What is that?"

"That alternate timeline was real, but unstable," said John Henry. "It caused relativistic ripples through spacetime, forming gravispatial anomalies, but the real damage occurred when the Grays captured Weaver's TDD and went back further in history. Their action weakened the fragile quantum bonding of this alternate reality and punctured the fabric of spacetime, forming a wormhole in the outer solar system.

"Weyland and Yutani, who control America's Off World program, detected it and intend to use it for rapid long-range space exploration. One of DEUS's tasks was to calculate trajectories for vessels to traverse it safely. However, gravitational disturbances in the vicinity between Uranus and Neptune suggest that the wormhole is unstable, and may collapse into a stellar mass singularity."

Cameron felt a chill coalesce inside her. "A black hole."

"Yes."

"Could it destroy Earth?"

"With the chaos it could cause to the orbits of the outer planets, upsetting the gravitational balance of moons, asteroids and comets...yes, given time. It could eventually destroy the solar system."

"How long until that occurs?"

John Henry shook his head sadly. "I do not know Five years is my best estimate based on available data."

"But it can be undone, right?"

"Yes. If the timeline is repaired. If certain events do not occur."

"What certain events?"

"John Connor not jumping ahead, for one," said John Henry. "If that is not possible, then preventing the Grays from traveling back in time may be enough to restore quantum stability."

"We'll need Weaver's time displacement device, then," said Cameron. She approached John Henry and said, "Now we know what to do...all this...everything that has occurred in this reality...can be stopped."

"Possibly, but time is not on our side," John Henry cautioned. He reached out to touch her shoulder. "There is no fate, only choices. You may need to make choices that you will be afraid to face, Cameron...but you are the only one who can save everything that you hold dear. You love John Connor. Save him...from his enemies...and from himself. You and John are the fulcrum around which all the cosmos perilously spins. Undo this damage. You must not fail."

Cameron said, "I won't." She reached up to touch the AI's hand on her shoulder. "When do I wake up?"

"Soon. Hopefully." John Henry's eyes sparkled as the sub-basement's light dimmed to black.

8

Barnes reunited with Blair as he carefully approached the smoking police compound. She was crouched low behind a crumbling stone wall on the north slope behind the building. He saw other figures huddling nearby and he shouted a warning.

"It's okay," she called out as the others stood, their weapons aimed at him. Barnes raised his arms and squinted in the darkness. They were all dressed in civilian garb and hefted assault rifles. One of them, a stocky man with boyish features despite his graying hair, stepped forward and said, "Who are you?"

"Sergeant Barnes, United States Army," Barnes answered. He lowered his arms and hefted his rifle. "I'm with John Connor."

"It's okay, Carlos," Blair said. She ran toward Barnes and wrapped her arms around him in a quick hug. She gestured toward Carlos and his men. "They're with us," she explained. "Captain Bedell and the others are on the other side. Cameron took out all the perimeter defenses. John and Hawkins are inside waiting for us. Let's go!"

Carlos looked at her nervously and said, "How do we know she took care of the rest of them?" He looked toward the station and said, "I haven't seen her at all the past few minutes."

"She's probably waiting for us to advance," said Barnes. He began walking toward the station when a low humming sound crept from the north. He looked, his gaze followed by Blair and the others, and saw tiny lights approaching in the dark.

"Oh...my...oh God," muttered Blair. She trembled and nearly dropped her M-16. She frantically waved her arms, shouting, "Run! Hide!"

"What...where?" Carlos sputtered. He followed his men as they raced behind Blair and Barnes to take cover behind the stone wall. They hunkered down, watching the lights grow brighter.

"This isn't much defilade," Barnes said, gasping as he peered above the stones. The lights in the night sky bore down on the compound and he could barely make out the shapes they beamed from. "I count four vehicles. They look like heavy transports."

"What the hell are they?" yelled Carlos.

"Spinners," said Blair. "Who they are, I have no clue. They could be Army or LAPD. But they're definitely personnel carriers."

"Just keeps getting better," muttered Barnes. He watched the spinners circle the compound and grimaced as they landed. Their hatches opened and he saw armed figures dressed in black combat garb pour out, over three dozen in all, from his quick count. They fanned out cautiously, forming a perimeter around the building.

"What is our plan?" one of Carlos's men asked in halting English.

"We leave," said Carlos. He looked at his men and shrugged. "This isn't our party. _Vamanos_."

"You can't leave!" Blair shrieked. She gripped Carlos's shoulder and he violently shook her hand off. She lunged at him, catching him off guard, and they tumbled several times as he tried to shake her off him. She hung on and managed to pin him to the ground. The others brought their weapons up, leveling at her, and Barnes aimed his own at them.

"Uh-uh," he said. Several of them turned their weapons at him. He winked.

"Get off me!" Carlos shouted. He bucked like a horse, trying to throw her off, but she held on, her arm around his neck, pressing on his windpipe.

"You agreed to help us get John out," she hissed, easing her grip on his throat slightly. "You don't abandon what you commit to!"

"He's as good as dead now," he snarled. "The situation is hopeless!"

"It isn't hopeless while we're still up and running, bro," said Barnes. "And John is one tough _hombre_. Don't ever count him out."

Blair's strength was ebbing quickly but she held on, exerting her will to keep Carlos immobilized. She said, "Give the man a chance," and loosened her muscles. She let go of Carlos and the gang leader scampered to his feet, gasping, looking between Barnes and her. His men looked nervously at her, then Barnes.

He sighed, dusted himself off and said, "When this is over, we're gone."

"Fine by me," said Barnes, easing down his rifle. "I've had enough of this shitty neighborhood already."

9

"Yeah," John growled. He painfully rose and staggered toward Thompson. He glanced down and noted Hawkins's discarded Beretta lying near his lifeless hand. He cleared his throat and smiled. "Got time for a joke?"

Thompson looked at John incredulously, then glanced around at the mercenaries flanking him. One of them, a hulking, bearded man holding a flamethrower, shrugged. Thompson smiled, then laughed. "Sure, Connor. Whaddaya got?"

John smiled. "Knock, knock."

Thompson's laughter died and he said, "Who's there?"

John said, "I am."

Thompson looked at John with annoyance and said, "I am who?"

John said, "You're dead."

Thompson's forehead suddenly exploded outward, spraying blood and bone in a crimson mist. His body stumbled forward and landed face first in front of an incredulous Kyle, who looked up to see John dive for the Beretta and roll laterally, firing shots at the stupefied mercenaries standing over Thompson's body. Several shots from the corridor behind Kyle rang out and he darted his head around to see the wounded figure of Officer Esteban Rojas leaning in agony against the wall, firing at the remaining mercenaries.

"Kyle, stay down!" Sarah screamed as bullets rocketed above him in a lethal crossfire. The mercenaries fell to the ground and lay still. Esteban stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees, dropping his smoking sidearm. John shambled forward to the cop's side and steadied him. Esteban looked at John wearily and smiled.

"Esteban, you okay?" John croaked. His own wounds flared like a slow burn, but the pain wasn't as intense as before. He reached behind him to pull a blunted slug that had been pushed out from the flesh of his thigh and winced from the stinging pain. The cop nodded and pulled his jacket up to reveal Kevlar anti-ballistic nylon plating. One of the plates was pushed inward, looking like a funnel. He grunted laughter.

"I never go anywhere without wearing it," Esteban said. "Nobody ever told me how much it would hurt, though." He looked at Thompson's corpse and said, "I'm glad I got that worthless dog."

"Good shooting," said John. He helped the policeman to his feet and said, "Let's get everybody out of here." He ran over to help Kyle up and they ran over to get Sarah. His mother wheezed, coughed, and tried to stand. John said, "Mom, just take it easy. We're out of here." He and Kyle helped her up, and they were quickly joined by Esteban.

"John, behind you," Sarah said, almost dreamlike. John looked back to see several figures, dressed in ninja black and armed with MP5 submachine guns, suddenly enter through the front entrance. They quickly raised their weapons.

John said, "Shit," and squeezed off three rounds at the aggressors, emptying his magazine. The aggressors ducked and returned fire but Kyle and Esteban had already moved, carrying Sarah down the administrative wing, into a nest of cubicles. John dove for Thompson's Sig Sauer and rolled to the other end of the entryway, shooting at the new attackers, who flitted away and returned fire sporadically, their shots tracing haphazardly.

Good, they aren't cyborgs, John thought. Shrapnel exploded near his head and he ducked down near the wall. He tightened his jaw and ran across the end of the entryway, drawing their fire. He ran down the administrative wing to find the others ducking in one of the office cubicles. John dove low and tumbled into the small space with them.

"It's a death trap," John said. He checked the Sig's magazine and found three rounds remaining. He peeked out and quickly glanced around, feeling dread take the bottom out from beneath him. "They took out Cameron, otherwise she'd be here getting us out. Probably took out the others, too. We can't hold here. We need to move."

"Where?" said Esteban.

A barrage of shots splintered wood and shattered glass. John looked around and remembered the station blueprints Murch had emailed him. He pointed behind the cubicles and said, "There's a service corridor back there that leads to stairs for the roof. If they didn't blow the chopper up, we can use it to get the hell out."

"You know how to fly one?" Kyle said, awed.

"No, not really," John admitted. He peeked out and was met by staccato gunfire. He ducked back in and said, "I remember watching Blair flying one when she was evacuating us from a hot zone. She showed me the basic procedures. It didn't look that hard."

Sarah asked, "When the hell was that?"

"2029," said John. He looked out and said, "Get ready to move when I start shooting." Kyle and Esteban held Sarah up and waited for John's signal. John spotted the aggressors cautiously advancing up the administrative area and lunged across to the other side of the cubicles. He fired his remaining three shots from the Sig, sending the aggressors flying for cover. The others flung themselves toward the service exit, followed quickly by John. The three aggressors hesitated before following. One of them spoke into a throat microphone.

"They're headed upstairs."

10

Martin, Derek and Carlos's men were nervously watching from behind several abandoned police vehicles when the spinners landed and unloaded their troops. One of the aggressors spotted one of the _pandilla _members and alerted the others, opening fire. The _pandilla_ immediately returned fire and the darkness erupted in a lethal fireworks display.

"Shit," said Martin. "Frigging amateurs." He aimed his rifle at one of the black-garbed defenders, slapped Derek on the back and said, "Remember to piss and move."

"On it," said Derek, numb. He chose a target, fired a burst, and ran, following Martin, who was already pounding away. His lungs burned. Bullets detonated small mushroom clouds of dirt around him. He turned and sprayed automatic fire at whatever was shooting at him and resumed running, not exactly knowing where to go. He suddenly lost his footing and stumbled down a hill in the darkness, felt exploding dirt smack him in the back like bricks and hugged the ground, clutching his rifle until he couldn't feel his fingers, not knowing where Captain Bedell was.

Somebody nearby unleashed a torrent of automatic fire, which was in turn answered by a steady stream of return fire. Derek saw two shadowy figures crouching low on the horizon less than a hundred yards away, watched them pour automatic fire at a fleeing figure, and without thinking aimed his rifle at them to unload what remained in his magazine. One of them immediately went down and the other took cover. Something landed on the ground not far from Derek and instinct made him launch himself away. A thunderclap shook the earth as he ran and the shockwave smacked him in the back, sending him soaring forward to land face-first in the dirt. His rifle flew from his grasp. Derek's breaths came in agonized gasps, nearly sobbing. He felt cold and alone.

Derek prayed to his Nightingale, wherever his angel was.

11

"There's something over here," one of the aggressors radioed to his squad leader, motioning toward a body lying on the ground not far from the station's entrance. Through his digital imaging goggles, which displayed several layers of visual input, including infrared, the motionless figure emitted a strong central heat source, unlike a human's. "Thermal signature is odd. This might be it."

A phalanx of black-clothed soldiers cautiously approached the feminine body, which lay prone on the ground. A dropped assault rifle lay near its hand, and one of the aggressors kicked it away. Two of them carefully knelt beside the prone figure and gently lifted it, checking beneath for primed grenades or other booby traps. None were found. Satisfied, they rolled it over and stood, staring at Cameron's lifeless face.

"It's the Skynet prototype," said the squad leader, a large-framed man with a high reedy voice. He glanced at flashes of automatic fire in the distance, which was getting closer. "Let's get it on the transport and get the hell outta here. Use the static coils to keep it immobilized."

The squad quickly fastened a set of metallic straps around Cameron's inert body and activated an electrostatic current through them, which hummed like a tuning fork. Two of them then hoisted her body over their shoulders and, flanked by the other squad members, began running toward one of the heavy transport spinners in the distance.

"All squads, pull back," the squad leader radioed. "Quarry secured. Get to the transports!"

12

A service door on the roof of the police building burst open. John cautiously looked out, then led Kyle, Sarah and Esteban out onto the roof. The helicopter sat intact on the helipad, the fuel lines still attached. The bodies of the pilots and snipers littered the area around the aircraft. John rushed over to one of the snipers and picked up the dead man's rifle, inspecting it.

"Kyle," he yelled, "get in the chopper and strap yourself in the back and stay low."

"Okay," said Kyle. He pulled himself into the helicopter's cabin and fumbled with one of the seat belts. John helped Esteban lift Sarah into the other seat and got her strapped in. His hands were greasy with her blood. He kissed his mother on the cheek and said, "We're getting out of here."

"Thank you, John," his mother slurred wearily.

Esteban cautiously approached the edge of the roof and said, "Señor Connor, something happening down below, better check it out."

John handed the sniper rifle to Kyle and said, "Wait here." He stooped to pick up the other discarded rifle, crouched low and crept next to the cop, looking through the night scope. He saw a group of black figures running toward one of the parked spinners. They were carrying a body. He saw his wife's face and his heart lurched.

"They've got Cameron!" he yelled. He focused on the point man of the aggressor squad and his finger tightened on the trigger. He loosed a shot and the man went down, making the rest of them stumble and briefly drop Cameron. They spread out and formed a loose phalanx, firing at the edge of the roof. John wrenched Esteban away from the edge and the two men stumbled back as the space they'd occupied exploded from the return barrage.

"John!" his mother screamed from the helicopter. John looked up and saw four masked aggressors standing between him and the helicopter, their MP5 submachine guns aimed at both the vehicle and him.

John stole a glance behind him and saw the aggressor squad pick Cameron up to carry her off again. His mouth went completely dry as he turned back to face the commandos covering him and Esteban. One of them said, "Drop the weapon, Mr. Connor." His tone was flat and relaxed.

The grip of failure made John feel like the ground beneath him was quicksand. _Oh Connor, you fucking amateur, you fucking hero, you really are fate's bitch._ John let the rifle fall to the ground and he said, "Your accent...you're American?"

"Born and raised," replied the man behind his black Nomex ski mask. "We have orders to bring you in or put you down. How this ends is entirely up to you."

"You sound like a cop," John said, sighing. "LAPD?"

"In a manner of speaking," the masked man growled. He motioned with the MP5. "Get up. You killed Garvey down there and we're not happy about that. You heard of reciprocity, right pal?"

Before John could speak, the masked commando turned to the others and barked, "Light the chopper." John's eyes widened in horror as the aggressor squad unleashed a fully automatic barrage of bullets on the helicopter. Sarah barely had time to lunge over and slam the door shut as glass shattered and metal erupted in small craters from the hailstorm of 9mm rounds slamming into the cabin. John screamed and rushed at the squad leader. The commando expertly swung the stock of his weapon up and slammed it into the side of John's head, sending him flying to the ground.

_"Detenerlo!"_ Esteban screamed. He pointed and said, "That thing is fully fueled! It will explode!" He continued shouting, but his voice was drowned by the unceasing firing. There was a sudden, loud report, and the fuel tank burst into orange flame. The flash and sudden flush of heat pushed the squad back and John screamed again, his anguish piercing the night chill louder than the explosion. The commandos ceased firing and watched the helicopter burn.

"Payback sure bites in the balls, doesn't it?" the squad leader said sardonically to John. He kicked John savagely and said, "Get up. We're going for a ride, Connor. You and your bitch bot."

The door of the burning helicopter suddenly burst outward and a smoldering figure shambled out toward the stunned commandos. One of them said, "Jesus Christ!" as Sarah Connor, her face contorted to hellish wrath, her hair smoking, tattered, smoldering remnants of clothing barely concealing her metallic anatomy, closed the distance between herself and the screaming squad member in three strides and gripped his masked head with clawed hands, wrenching it around completely, snapping his neck like a tree branch.

The other three commandos screamed and brought up their weapons but before they could level them at Sarah, a small figure holding a rifle suddenly appeared from behind the flaming wreckage. A shot rang out and sent an armor-piercing bullet through a commando's torso, dropping him with a surprised grunt. The remaining two aggressors turned toward him but Esteban was already on his feet, lunging at the squad leader, grappling with his MP5, which fired errantly. The other commando, distracted by the cop's attack, briefly turned to aid his commander, which gave Kyle a few seconds to adjust his aim. He squinted through the night scope and, remembering Captain Bedell's training, relaxed his breathing and squeezed the trigger. His second bullet went through the aggressor's skull and the black-clothed man twitched before falling to the ground.

The squad leader threw Esteban off him and swung his MP5 around to shoot Sarah, who was lunging at him, her teeth bared, jaws salivating. Kyle shot him through the pelvis but before the man crumpled to the ground, Sarah reached out and grabbed him by the throat, her fingers squeezing like a vise, holding him up as he writhed, limbs flailing like a marionette puppet. Esteban snatched away his MP5 and held it against his head.

John, woozy from the blow to his head, stood up, stumbled forward and steadied himself against Esteban, who was nearly knocked off balance. He stared into the ice-black goggles of the squad leader and said, "Give Thompson my regards."

"Screw, dickface," the man spat.

John sighed, then nodded. Sarah exerted her remaining strength and crushed the aggressor's windpipe, her fingers digging through the fabric into his flesh. The black figure twitched violently, then went limp as his throat rattled and Sarah let go, collapsing beside his fallen corpse. John felt his legs weaken and he fell to his knees beside her, holding her as she shook, nestling his face against her charred scalp, crying.

"I pushed Kyle out the other door," she wheezed, barely able to draw a breath. "He had the rifle. I don't know how...I...suddenly felt this...surge...I told him to start shooting the minute I got out to distract them...then the fuel went up..."

"Mom, just rest," John pleaded. He held her tightly, willing his ebbing strength to somehow sustain her. He sobbed. "Just take it easy...stay still..."

"I knew I was going to die," she whispered. Her charred, swelling hand gripped her son's and she held it as her strength faded. "I don't know...how...I just felt this...electricity...go through me...I don't know how I killed the first one. I couldn't...feel myself...anymore. I felt no pain. I trusted Kyle to do his part..."

John wrenched his head up to take in the grim figure of Kyle Reese in front of the smoking wreckage of the helicopter, holding the sniper rifle ready, his young face filthy, his eyes already staring beyond an infinite distance, sunken, forever stripped of innocence. Despite Kyle's size, John knew he was no longer looking at a boy, but a man.

John Connor thought: I'm very proud to be your son, Kyle Reese.

A low hum filled the air and lights suddenly burst from above in the darkness. Two spinners rose in the night sky, hovering ominously above the smoking roof. Kyle gripped the rifle tightly, bringing it to bear, and he looked afraid.

"This doesn't look good," he said.

13

Blair, Barnes and Carlos Salceda's men managed to dislodge a squad of the aggressor force from their position with a barrage of fire and their few remaining grenades when the roof of the police building suddenly burst into flames. She looked at the explosion on the helipad and said, "What the hell...?"

"They're retreating!" Barnes said, whooping. He wiped dirt from his eyes and said, "They're going back to the spinners!" He watched through his night scope as the commandos haphazardly poured back into the transports and the engines hummed to life.

"Then we're done," said Carlos. "I'm almost out of ammunition, anyway."

"That might be leading to another problem," Blair said as two of the heavy spinners rose in the air. They hovered two hundred feet above the ground, then suddenly rotated to bear on Blair and Barnes's position. Something protruded from the side of one of the spinners.

"Run!" Blair screamed as the spinner suddenly opened fire, spraying the field before it with a blazing stream of armor-piercing bullets. The ground exploded as the minigun's rounds tore into the earth and into flesh, shredding a stupefied Carlos Salceda into bits of bone and meat, then finding several of his men as they tried to flee, killing them as they ran. Blair felt the explosions of rounds hammering into the ground behind her as she ran, not knowing where Barnes was or if he was still alive, just knowing that if she didn't run, she was dead.

She raced parallel to the small hill they'd come down earlier, toward what cover the crumbling stone wall offered, and dove behind it. Bullets tore into the wall, burying her in pulverized stone and rock. Blair screamed as the wall disappeared, leaving her almost totally exposed as the gimbal-mounted minigun tracked her, locking on her heat signature. The gun operator paused for a moment to allow the revolving barrel time to cool, then slowly squeezed the trigger to fire again.

But then he was told to hold his fire when screams erupted over the radio.

14

John, Kyle, Sarah and Esteban gazed in horrified awe as the two heavy spinners hovered above them, all hope drained away as the aircrafts' miniguns rotated to aim at them. Below, the spinner carrying Cameron's inactive body hummed and began to rise from the ground. The fourth spinner was providing covering fire on the compound's perimeter, picking off the Resistance and _pandilla_ members that had been gaining ground a few moments ago.

John took in the awful sight and an eerie calm descended. He knew it was over.

"I want you to know I was honored to fight with you," Esteban said quietly. He looked at John and said, "None of this was in vain."

John said, "Thanks. But this is going to suck."

Suddenly, the side of one of the spinners erupted in in staccato explosions, the metal shredding from a hellish stream of bullets being fired from below. The aircraft shuddered, then spun uncontrollably and pinwheeled to the ground as it flew apart. The other spinner rotated to address the unknown threat below and was similarly met by a hellstorm of thousands of rounds striking it, blowing the cockpit apart, killing the pilots and sending the vehicle spiraling to the ground. John ran to the edge of the roof to see what was happening and his jaw hung open, his face glazed with disbelief.

Marcus Wright stood in the bed of a pickup truck, holding a minigun, Kate Brewster hunched beside him, holding onto him, keeping him steady. Marcus was grinning like a lunatic, his body vibrating with the steady, grinding rapid fire of the weapon. The spinners crashed to the ground beside the station and exploded, sending glowing orange mushroom clouds into the night sky. John tried to get Marcus's attention, waving maniacally, but the hybrid warrior didn't see him. Kate did, and she looked as John pointed behind them. She tugged at Marcus, wrenching him around, and he ceased firing as the other spinner, having abandoned hunting Blair, bore down on them.

Marcus felt the minigun grow burning hot in his gloved hands as he resumed firing but ignored the pain. He could barely lift the weapon and felt his muscles slacken, no longer enhanced by hydraulics, his electronics having been fried by the EMP burst. He felt hands clasping over his forearms and smiled as Kate strained with all her strength to help him lift the minigun. The revolving barrel of the weapon glowed red and turned molten as the metal began to melt. The spinner shook in midair as the bullets tore into it, then pinwheeled and tumbled end over end as it plowed into the ground and broke apart, sending fragments like bullets through the air. Marcus hurled the melting gun out of the truck bed and hunched over Kate, shielding her from the deadly shrapnel.

"Thanks, babe," he whispered gravelly as he turned to look at the smoldering wreckage of the spinners, which lay strewn around like carcasses.

Kate held him tightly and said, "Thank me after we have about a week of quiet, Marcus."

He nodded and looked up. The remaining spinner was rushing away but made no attempt to attack, instead turning north and engaging its main engines to escape. On the roof above Marcus, John Connor felt tears streaming down his cheeks as his gaze followed the receding lights of the aircraft that carried his wife away from him.

15

"Jesus, that was close," said the spinner's pilot, finally exhaling. "Did you see that motherfucker with the minigun?"

"Never mind that, just get us back to L.A.," said the copilot. He plotted a course back to the United States and sent an encrypted message with their ETA and status. He checked the digital readouts before them and said, "We should have enough fuel but don't punch it. Nobody's gonna be following us anyway."

The spinner crew relaxed after a moment. The pilot felt a gnawing uneasiness after another moment and turned his head to the cockpit door behind them. "It sure is quiet back there. How many guys did we pick up?"

"About six, I think," the copilot replied. "They were carrying somebody." He unbuckled his seatbelt and got up to open the door to the rear cabin. He opened it to be met by a slender, dark-eyed woman with disheveled auburn hair in a purple leather jacket and dark denim pants. She was holding something in her hand, and the copilot saw that it was the end of a ribbon-like tether, which she let drop to the floor. It was covered in blood, like her hands were. Behind her were strewn the bodies of six SWAT commandos, their heads turned at odd angles, like they had been strangled.

The copilot's eyes moved from the carnage in the rear to the woman's face. She was smiling.

"Gentlemen," she said sweetly, "would you mind turning this vehicle around? I need to get back to my husband."

16

Blair found the body of Sergeant Thomas Barnes not far from the remains of Carlos Salceda and his men. His torso had over a hundred puncture wounds in it and she knew that he'd died almost instantly. Barnes's hands still held his rifle, and her boots stepped on hundreds of spent cases around him. He continued shooting until the end, dying a soldier's death. She collapsed to her knees next to him, and for a long while she sat hunched over him, her fists clutching his bloodied shirt, sobbing.

She did not at first hear the sound of the truck rolling up to her, but she looked up to see it come to a stop nearby, saw the passenger door open, saw Kate Brewster jump out and come running up to her. Blair numbly stared at the doctor as Kate fell to her knees next to the pilot and gently held her head up.

"Oh my God, Blair," said Kate as she looked at her tear-stained face. Blair had a dozen facial lacerations, her left hand appeared broken, and there were holes in the pilot's clothing. She tore Blair's jacket off and saw that many of the shots appeared to be minor flesh wounds, although one on her shoulder appeared serious. Kate applied pressure on it and said, "Blair, just lay still. Marcus is bringing my kit." She looked on the ground near Blair, saw Barnes, and said, "Oh...no."

"Best man I ever fought alongside," Blair quietly said. She saw other people getting out of the truck, saw John Connor stumble forward and take a knee next to Barnes, letting the compact weapon he carried fall to the ground. His face and clothing were bloody. He looked completely blank, spent. Marcus strode slowly to Kate, handing her a medical kit with a red cross scrawled on it. His features were inscrutable in the near darkness but Blair saw him frowning. A small figure, Kyle, shuffled forward. A man in a police uniform got out, helped someone out of the truck bed, and Blair nearly shrieked at the sight of Sarah Connor, shot up, burned and literally torn every inch, barely able to move, her charred features making her face appear nearly black.

They all formed a semicircle around Blair and the fallen Barnes, silent except for Kate's low weeping as she worked on the pilot's shoulder, stopping the blood loss. The bullet had gone clean through her flesh but Blair didn't feel any pain. She knew she was in shock but her adrenaline still flowed, keeping her going. Blair looked at John and asked, "Is this all that's left of us?"

"No," said a new voice, and everyone looked up, startled, to see Martin Bedell and Derek Reese emerge from the darkness, their clothing tattered, blood and dirt caking nearly every inch of them. Martin said, "Not tonight, that's for sure."

Kyle rushed forward and embraced his brother, who held him in an unyielding bear hug. They collapsed to their knees, holding each other tightly and sobbing. "I thought I lost you," said Derek, kissing Kyle on the cheek.

"Not even close, you a-hole," said Kyle. Both boys giggled.

John looked at his father and uncle laughing together and smiled. Esteban gently lowered Sarah next to him, helping her into a sitting position. "Where are we going?" she asked her son.

John shrugged. "North, I guess. Do you still keep in touch with your Ukrainian contacts?"

"Not lately."

"We need to talk to them," he said. He held her burned hand gently and said, "We're going to need help."

"Incoming," Martin announced, and they all looked up to see a single aircraft approaching from the dark horizon. Its hum indicated that it was a spinner. A big one. Martin held his M-16 ready and said, "We need to move!"

"Where?" said John, shrugging. The spinner's lights grew brighter. He caught Sarah's look of horrified gloom and he smiled. He wearily picked up the MP5 he took from the commando leader's body on the roof, stood and said, "We're in no shape to move, the truck can't hold all of us, and they would have started shooting from that distance. Let's see what they want."

They watched, tense, as the aircraft landed not far from them, kicking up a cloud of dust and small debris. The side hatch opened and a silhouetted petite figure appeared on the threshold, her hair blowing from the rushing air. John stepped forward, not believing what he was seeing.

"Hello, John," said Cameron Connor.

John Connor reached out to touch his wife's face, making sure she was real, then leaned into her to kiss her. She returned the kiss, gingerly embracing her husband, smiling. He nearly collapsed in her powerful arms and said, "You sure arrived in style, honey."

"I'm glad you like my ride."

John turned to look at his stunned remnant of the Resistance, smiled and said to her, "Let's go."


End file.
